


Affair With a Kkangpae

by Sajo



Series: 인호 & 상준 (깡패관계) [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aromantic Bisexual POV Character, Developing Friendship, Doodles, Dubious Consent, First Time, Fluid Sexuality, Fuckbuddies, Gratuitous Smut, Historical References, Korean Characters, M/M, Minor Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slice of Life, Tags May Change, but also a lot of ahistorical/anachronistic attitudes & povs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 86,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sajo/pseuds/Sajo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Busan, South Korea, 1988. Inho's street-fighting and skirt-chasing days are long over, and he's quite satisfied with his current drama-free life. That perfectly ordinary state of affairs is shot to hell, however, when some uppity SOB goes right ahead and ruins 'ordinary' with a preposterous demand. </p><p>[Slice-of-life about a relationship between two men. Not quite a love story.<br/>Mostly an excuse to write (vanilla) smut and <a href="http://boolsart.tumblr.com/tagged/InSang">draw dudes</a>. Historical details are generally fudged.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inho meets Sangjun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho meets Sangjun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes at the end of the chapter.

**Kkangpae (깡패):** Literally translates to 'thug', but is often used as an umbrella term for 'gangster', 'mobster', hoodlum', etc. to include both the South Korean mafia and any unorganized street gang. Mafiosos/members of _organized_ crime are also referred to as jopok (조폭) or geondal (건달).

* * *

"Inho! Help!"

The door to the cramped, secondary stockroom banged open, and Inho looked up from his checklist.

Taegyu, the storeowner and Inho's employer and friend, grabbed Inho's arm and cowered behind him, pushing him out of the room. "Quick! You have deal with this."

Seven gangsters from the area's protection racket—some of them young men who, Inho noted, should be in school right now—had just started to make a mess of the store's stock.

"Did you call the police?" Inho asked calmly as he stretched his neck and shoulders.

"You know how slow they are, no!"

Inho rolled up his shirtsleeves and went swiftly to work. He grabbed too-large suit collars and gaudy neck chains, bashed heads, toppled clumsy ones with sweeping kicks, struck some pressure points to immobilize, all the while dragging the thugs toward the exit. The quick, efficient, and no-nonsense thrashing spooked the kids. They scrambled to grab their less mobile brothers, cursing and tripping over themselves. Inho straightened his shirt as he watched them run off.

After taking seven leisurely years up north to complete his mandatory military service and graduate with his degree in civil engineering, Inho had worked for a year at a construction firm in Seoul. Then he'd begun to feel aimless and homesick, so he'd decided to find work in his hometown. When he'd moved back south to the bustling port city of Busan over two years ago, he hadn't expected much. He'd found work quickly enough, as a paper-pushing office monkey at some fancy, up-and-coming architecture firm, but he'd gotten restless with that six months in. During a walk through his old neighborhood, on the day he'd turned in his two-weeks' notice, he had run into Taegyu, a friend from secondary school, who was doing pretty well for himself with his respectably large textiles store. They'd talked over drinks, and by the next morning, Inho had a new job as an inventory manager.

Inho had no idea that he would also be acting as a one-man security force when he accepted the position, but he quickly found out that there was a need for his skills, with the rare turf wars between gangs, and the less uncommon power struggles between small-time mob bosses. As much as Inho wanted his actions to reflect the propriety and gentility of his Choi family name, the call of the adrenaline-drenched violence of street fights was strong, and these rough, classless brawls helped keep his skills and instincts honed. And it was exhilarating, for the most part: a lot of these thugs were unskilled young men, plenty of grit but not much of a challenge. All too often, after the fights were over, Inho felt pity, and a profound sadness, for these youngsters who threw away their lives for a gang.

The dust had long settled and no more such young thugs were in sight, when Inho stopped reminiscing. He sat down on a low display table near the entrance. The other employees began tidying up, and Taegyu brought over some gauze and a bottle of disinfectant.

"I don't get paid enough for this," Inho joked, swiping the disinfectant over bleeding knuckles. "What's your problem now with those punks?"

"You know how well things are going these days, right? They caught on and just upped their protection fee, and I...might have sort of flipped them off."

Inho sighed. This part of Seo-gu was overseen from the shadows by a well-established and influential gang, and Taegyu had been wrangled into agreeing to the gang's 'protection'. The local police weren't terribly quick to respond, and the gang's threat was too immediate for police to be much help if they were to become involved.

"That was idiotic. I can't fight them off every time, you know. One day they might just decide to come back for revenge, burn down this place..."

Taegyu squeaked when Inho abruptly pulled him down.

"And maybe," Inho murmured, staring Taegyu dead in the eyes and stabbing his side with an invisible knife, "kill off all of us in the process."

It was mostly a joke. The gangs were busy with their internal affairs and with evading the law, and for the majority of civilians—even those under gang 'protection'—fatal encounters weren't a serious threat.

But Inho had once witnessed a bloodbath when shit had gone down between two rival bosses and they'd ruthlessly exercised their power. The scumbag who'd sold street drugs to kids was dead, and the other one had recently been released from jail and (according to rumors) was still running Seo-gu's largest loan sharking business. Most of the casualties had been gangsters, but there had been a couple bystanders killed in the crossfire.

That had been an 'accident', though. Violent gang confrontations didn't occur as often or as spectacularly these days. But the smallest of affronts could spark a fight that led to fatalities; you never knew the whims of mob bosses. And if you were unfortunate enough to catch the attention of one of those fuckers...

Taegyu laughed nervously. "You're scary when you say things like that." He patted Inho's shoulder. "Anyway, I have the Tiger working for me. Those punks don't stand a chance."

Inho scoffed, picking up his abandoned checklist. His days of being known as the 'Tiger' were long over, and he wanted to bury that history of reckless, egotistic teenage foolishness. He was too old for that shit now, and he liked the thought of living a peaceful life. Settle down. With a respectably paying job and a nice apartment, and, down the line, a pretty wife and some kids. Maybe not now—the occasional street-fight still excited him—but...someday.

"I'm not telling you what to do..." Inho muttered, flexing his scratched-up hands, "but I'm telling you to just do your job, Taegyu. Don't provoke them."

* * *

The storeroom door creaked open, and Inho turned as the door clicked shut again, expecting to see Taegyu. 

But it wasn't his stick-thin, slouching friend standing there. Instead, it was some clean-shaven guy, a few inches shorter than Inho, with movie-star good looks. He looked sharp in his glinting Rolex and dark gray shirt. His flashy white waistcoat and trousers, combined with the way he carried himself—that arrogant set to his shoulders and chin, the untamed confidence sparking in his eyes...it was a quintessential look, belonging to old-time mob bosses. His deceptively pleasant smile further raised Inho's hackles.

"And who might you be?"

"Lee Sangjun," the man supplied readily, holding out a hand. "It's a pleasure to make your acquain—"

"Cut the bullshit, you worthless thug. What business do you have here?"

"Ah." Sangjun dropped his hand, huffing out a laugh. "I almost forgot about your fearless disdain for us hardworking folk, Choi Inho. My father talked about you, back when you used to pick fights with gangsters. I only got to see you in action a couple times before you disappeared, but I could never forget a face like yours. Why didn't you ever join a family?"

"Because I'm not a criminal," Inho sarcastically addressed the only relevant point of that rambling introduction. "No sane man wants to tarnish his existing family's name by joining some good-for-nothing gang."

Sangjun's pleasant smile wavered, took on a cold edge.

The rational part of Inho's brain yelled at him to stop provoking the guy, but Inho had always been more reckless than wise, he might as well see this to its end his way.

"You say that now, but don't lie to yourself. You fought like a beast. You were trying to prove yourself to us back then."

There was a grain of truth to that, but not enough to make Inho pause. "Why are you harassing me? Shouldn't your business be with Taegyu?" Wait. "You didn't do anything to him, did you?"

"No," Sangjun waved a hand. "I'm actually here for you."

"Do you have some sort of quarrel with me that I didn't know about?"

"No quarrel. I just want the famed Tiger under me." Sangjun's gaze swept down and up the line of Inho's body before meeting Inho's frown. "Working for me, that is."

"You can't be serious." Inho was getting a weird feeling about all this... "Let's try this again. Why are you even here, dirtying your shoes in our modest neighborhood? I would assume the protection racket is one of your...cruder, endeavors."

"Like I said, my business is with you."

"Yes...yes, you're trying to recruit me. All right, I'll buy that. Why?"

"'Recruit'...no. Let me elaborate: I'm not giving you a choice. I'm here to force you to work for me."

" _Force_ , hm?" Inho stared, eyebrows raised in incredulity.

"It isn't like you're doing anything worthwhile in this shithole."

Inho let out a short burst of sarcastic laughter then. "Okay, I think that's enough nonsense from you." Dropping his strained smile, Inho gave Sangjun his most serious, dead-eyed glare. "First of all, the 'Tiger' doesn't exist anymore, and secondly, I don't work for low-life criminals. Get lost."

Sangjun pocketed his hands. "You're treading dangerously."

"What will you do if I cross a line?" Inho asked softly, looking down his nose at the mobster, stepping deliberately into the man's space. " _Try_ to kill me?"

Sangjun returned Inho's direct stare. "You're aggravating, but murder isn't on the list of things I'd do to you. But sure, I'll go with the good old-fashioned threats. You wouldn't want something unfortunate to happen to your friends and loved ones, would you? You should know that the price of your refusal will be so high that your genteel morals won't stand for it."

Inho was never the first to react in anger. If he ever threw the first punch in a fight, it wasn't due to an emotional reaction. This physical control was something he prided himself in, although he could admit to himself that his reactive words still needed work—a lot of work, if his current situation was something to go by. But right now, as he clenched his fists, the fury boiling up inside him was threatening to spill out.

And there was dread, alongside the anger. Inho had to concede that the threat was sufficiently real. He never expected his past notoriety to land him in a situation like this. It was a twist of misfortune that there were gangsters still alive who knew his reputation, and this crazy fucker had to be one of those who just couldn't leave well enough alone.

"You are going to great lengths to get me to go with you." Inho kept his arms at his sides, afraid that any movement now might become violent.

"Men have desires," Sangjun shrugged, "and I have the means to fulfill mine. Including this one." He paused and reached up with a mocking smile to straighten Inho's collar.

Inho put on his best contemptuous expression (it wasn't difficult). "Real men learn to tame their desires, to exercise restraint and practice ethical conduct."

Sangjun laughed. "Where did you learn to rattle off that load of shit, at a fucking monastery? Is that what old aristocratic families teach their sons these days?" Gripping the collar that he'd neatened, Sangjun pulled until they were eye-to-eye. His voice was low, barely louder than a whisper. "You try to hold onto some higher moral ground, using your fancy lineage as an excuse. Morals and noble prestige mean shit with your family's outdated politics and declining financial influence. You should know your place."

"And you should stay in yours," Inho growled, digging his fingers into Sangjun's wrist. "Stop flapping your mouth and fuck off, go play with your fellow criminals."

Sangjun took a step forward, stubbornly refusing to give in, and crowded Inho. "Your efforts are useless but you keep protesting."

"I have my principles." Sangjun's mocking gaze was fixed just inches away from Inho's heated glare, and it was taking Inho a good amount of willpower not to punch that expression off the mobster's face. "You know my contempt for your kind."

"I do. And yet...I'm being very generous here. You won't be working for the mob, you'll be working just for me."

"Yes, _so_ kind of you. It's the same damn thing."

"It isn't." Sangjun finally let go and eased back while Inho dropped his own hold. "I do have a mostly legal front to maintain these days," Sangjun said, absently rubbing his wrist.

'Mostly legal'—Inho snorted. Knowingly working for any kind of mob was fundamentally opposed to everything that Inho stood for, but Sangjun predictably didn't seem to care about that. Pissants like him just barged into the lives of hapless law-abiding citizens, playing lightly with human lives for fun to satisfy their ridiculous whims. Inho hated men who abused their power like that.

But right now, Inho was just an average citizen and powerless to do anything about his status. He had zero leverage against the mobster's threat, and he absolutely refused to involve his family in any way in this sort of base affair. He let out a small sigh, gathered his thoughts.

"Fine," he capitulated, enduring Sangjun's smug grin. "But let me be perfectly clear with you. I'll do whatever tedious, menial task you ask of me—I'll even fight other low-life gangsters for you—but I won't engage in any other criminal activity. I will not threaten innocent people, and I certainly won't kill for you."

"Oh, don't worry," Sangjun laughed lightly, moving forward again, and this time, Inho had to take a step back to avoid a collision. A hand reached out, fingers brushed Inho's wrist. "That's not what I want you for."

There was no other warning for Inho before he was shoved back hard into the boxes overflowing from a supply rack. His wrists were caught in a sudden strong grip and his body was trapped by a thigh pressing firmly against him, and before he could wrap his mind around what the hell was happening, there were lips...crushing his—...?

...Huh?

The shock rendered Inho completely still. Utterly shameful for someone whose instinct was to act, act, _act_ when something as mind-boggling as this happened. Before he could think to bite down—do _something_ —Sangjun pulled away but kept his face unwisely close; if Inho had had the presence of mind, he would have headbutted him.

But Inho's entire worldview was getting a savage shaking in those few seconds that he spent staring blindly at the other man, unable to process the situation.

"...Is this your idea of a joke?" It came out as a horrified whisper.

"I rarely joke." Sangjun smiled, daring to bring a hand up to Inho's face in a mocking caress. "This will be a secret little...affair, between us."

"An _affair_. How fucking quaint," Inho laughed humorlessly.

Inho knew how he wanted to deal with gangsters. Typical thugs usually had more bark than bite. Right now, however, he was completely lost. He didn't know how to act or how to apply any of his principles in the face of this bizarre new development. This...unspoken taboo. He had no idea of the mob's stance on the issue, but he didn't think it was any better than that of the rest of society.

Still unable to raise his voice above a whisper, Inho tried to say something to help him get over his shock. "You don't seriously expect to keep this—this transgression—...to actually—..." he trailed off, gave up trying to find the words to express his confused jumble of emotions.

"The fearless Tiger of the West is working for me. I think that's enough of a cover."

"Enough with the Tiger nonsense." This response was almost becoming automatic for Inho. "I'm not a woman."

"Obviously not," Sangjun quipped and shifted his thigh against Inho, which earned him nothing but a frown.

"I'm not a homosexual."

"It doesn't matter."

Inho finally had enough of the intrusion into his personal space. He pulled his hands out of Sangjun's grip and shoved the gangster back. "I'm not a whore."

"You are, for all intents and purposes," Sangjun replied flippantly, an annoying smirk on his face, and _that_ prospect needled Inho's pride like nothing else. "From what I've heard, you've always been rather promiscuous."

Young, reckless Inho had two reputations—the tiger and the womanizer—and right now Inho deeply regretted his entire history. He knew from experience that women tended to find him attractive, but men? He hadn't considered that angle before (not seriously, at least). Currently it was, more than anything, befuddling him. There was some of the knee-jerk repulsion and denial, but mostly...

Mostly his anger was threaded with confusion. And, even as his pride screamed at him, there was an inkling of curiosity...

Fuck. He could hardly believe what he was considering, but this wasn't the time to dwell on it. He sighed shortly, resigned. "Is that all I'm doing? Late-night 'service'?"

"Hmmm...no, actually. I could use another guy on my security detail."

This whole situation was becoming stranger with each passing second and giving Inho a headache. "You think I'm going to risk my life to protect yours?"

"I'll pay you for your work. Some of my ventures are actually legal, and I _am_ held somewhat accountable."

"You're bullying me, practically blackmailing me into some kind of sexual servitude, but you're also expecting me to be your paid bodyguard."

"Straightforward, no?"

"No. You're crazy."

"It's very simple." Sangjun lifted Inho's right hand and held it where Inho could see the peeling scabs. "Corporate managing director's security detail," Sangjun said, and then brought the hand down, near his belt buckle, "and mobster's fucktoy."

Managing director. So he had an actual title. (Inho resolutely ignored the last part.) That explained some things. Many gangs were adapting, had evolved in tandem with the modernizing world. They reduced their presence in the gritty, violent streets to infiltrate sterilized metal-and-glass corporations, and even establish their own, looking to the world like any other legitimate business.

"What makes you think I won't kill you, or turn you in to the authorities when I get the chance?"

"You're too much of a gentleman to _kill_ anyone. And you won't run," Sangjun smirked. "Because it's true, your estimation of me. I'm the worst kind of degenerate, good-for-nothing kkangpae at my core, with too many resources at hand." He lifted Inho's unresisting hand, kissed the scarred knuckles in a mocking gesture. "And you should always be aware of the sincerity of my threat."

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: Some (initial) designs for Inho (L) and Sangjun (R)... :x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- Seo-gu, Busan (서구, 부산) = West District, Busan (Busan is the 2nd largest city in South Korea)  
> \- Inho (인호) = [some wordplay re: MC's name] -ho (호) has various meanings depending on its Chinese character; 'tiger' is one


	2. Inho isn't very impressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho isn't very impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some light dubcon bondage in this chapter.

Sangjun had the basic decency to give Inho time to say proper farewells to Taegyu. Inho's friend was predictably unhappy about the abrupt resignation, but he didn't dare say a word (not loudly at least) of pointed discontent, not with the mobster standing by the exit within hearing range.

"Why the hell was he looking for you?!" Taegyu whispered harshly. "What's that asshole making you do?"

"I'm...part of his security detail," Inho replied, keeping it simple. 

There was a short silence as Taegyu's face made several attempts to settle on the appropriate expression for that declaration. Inho snorted at the exaggeratedly incredulous look that his friend settled on, agreeing wholeheartedly. 

"Don't think about it," Inho murmured, shaking his head. "Just be a good man, work hard, pay your dues. I won't be around to clean up." He patted Taegyu's shoulder. 

"You're not actually a gangster now, are you?"

Inho hesitated. There wasn't really a neat, clear-cut answer to that. He would stand by his morals, but he was officially on a mobster's payroll now, no matter how 'mostly legal' said mobster's business was. "No, I'm not."

Taegyu nodded shortly, lips pursed. He of all people should know Inho's stance on gangsterism.

Inho smiled ruefully. "I really am sorry to have to quit so suddenly."

"You should be! It'll be a bitch to find even a half-decent replacement," Taegyu joked weakly, before his expression became serious again. "Just be careful, Inho. Don't get yourself stabbed out there."

Inho wasn't concerned so much about  _literally_  getting stabbed, but figuratively... Might as well find some humor in the situation, since he didn't really have a choice in the matter. "I'll try my best not to," he replied solemnly. 

After a final handshake, Inho followed Sangjun out. It was a comfortably cool spring evening, and the sun had already set. The streets were still bustling with human activity, and nighttime businesses had just begun. In front of Taegyu's store, away from the spotlight of a dim yellow streetlamp, sat a sleek black car. A hulking, older man in a dark suit was leaning against the hood. He straightened immediately when he spotted Sangjun and Inho, bowed to Sangjun with a low, gravelly, "Director," gave Inho a quick once-over, and silently opened the back door for them.

The driver/bodyguard's expression betrayed nothing as Inho slipped in after Sangjun, but Inho felt like he had a flashing neon sign on his forehead: 'the boss's fucktoy'... His ancestors were probably rolling in their graves right now. Inho swept his gaze from a surprisingly reticent Sangjun, to the driver's reflection in the rearview mirror, and finally settled on staring out the heavily tinted window. The rumble of car engine and the soft, scratchy radio music were the only noises that punctuated the heavy silence between the three men as they drove to Sangjun's personal residence. 

When they arrived, Inho couldn't help but stare at the sheer height of the building. It was a newly constructed apartment complex, located in one of the most rapidly flourishing areas in the city; just two blocks away was another complex under rapid construction, its dark, massive frame reaching for the sky. Inside the brightly lit lobby, Sangjun strode past the main cluster of elevators towards an inconspicuous private elevator. Claiming the flashy penthouse apartment—how typical. 

The elevator ride was predictably silent and awkward. Inho and Sangjun stood near the back, at opposite walls, while Sangjun's chauffeur stood stoically at the center. Inho was glad for the wordlessness. Things were happening too quickly for his peace of mind, and he needed the space to just come to terms with everything.

Upon entering his residence, Sangjun kicked his shoes off to one side of the entryway and padded inside. Inho took off his shoes more calmly, setting them so the toes faced the door, and followed at a leisurely pace. The entryway led to a large living room that was connected to a gleaming, open kitchen. Floor-length windows and several sliding doors leading out to the patio lined the entirety of the north-facing wall. The place was spacious and uncluttered. Rather sterile. Excessively large, with way too many more rooms than someone like Sangjun needed. The mobster walked on, straight into the room at the far end of the lounge. Probably the master bedroom.

Sangjun switched on a tall floor lamp instead of the brighter ceiling lights. A small, round table with two chairs sat near a liquor cabinet and a full bookcase that lined the south wall. And beyond the books, an open door led to the bathroom. The eastern wall was dominated by large windows, its curtains shut. The bed was huge (larger than Inho's entire bedroom) and its headboard was pushed against the north wall. And, of course, there had to be a walk-in closet. 

Inho stood aimlessly in the middle of the room, hands tucked in his pockets. "So," he said, breaking the silence first. He watched as Sangjun took off his vest to carelessly toss it over the back of a chair. "Your driver knows of your...deviant proclivities."

"I can't keep something like this a secret from everyone," Sangjun replied. "Hyechul's been at my side for a long time. He's loyal," he added, tugging off his tie and throwing that over the vest. "You'll be working with him."

Ah yes, Inho really looked forward to that.

"Make yourself at home, enjoy the amenities." Sangjun grinned, insolently patting Inho's cheek. "Wait for me like the good little whore that you are." 

Inho glared at Sangjun's back until the mobster left the room, then let out a long, controlled breath to rein in the irritation that had flared up in response to that jab. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he turned away from the noises of Sangjun leaving the apartment (for who knew what). The mobster knew precisely how to wound Inho's pride. But there was nothing for it.

So, Inho decided to do as he'd been told. 

He promptly raided the liquor cabinet and, after a moment of mild appreciation, poured himself a generous glass of scotch whisky. It was difficult for regular people like him to enjoy this kind of expensive import. He paced slowly while he drank, absently admiring the overall modern designs of the room. There wasn't much beyond that, however; this room was as solemn and impersonal as the rest of the penthouse.

Then he stopped in front of the windows. He opened the curtains all the way and stared, mesmerized. The view of nighttime Busan's cityscape was spectacular. Countless spots of electric light, suspended cranes amidst climbing metal-and-concrete structures, glistening office building windows. Clusters of high-rise buildings dwarfing everything around them—a quirky composite of old and new. The sheer human activity spread out beneath him, and beyond, the faintest outline of the harbor and the quiet East Sea horizon.

If anything was worth the day's trouble, it was this view of his home city. The only real sense of connection and groundedness he felt in this fancy space. 

Inho stood there for a few more minutes before he turned away, set the nearly empty glass down on the coffee table. He needed a good, long shower to wash away the day's tensions.

He unbuttoned his shirt while he wandered into the luxuriously appointed bathroom, which was, from a cursory inspection, equipped with everything a guest would need. Folding his shirt and placing it on some free counter space, he inspected his face in the mirror. The pads of his fingers scraped over a light, even dusting of two-day-old stubble, and Inho decided he wouldn't need a shave any time soon. Sangjun would just have to deal with the bristles if he felt inclined towards kissing. 

Leaving the rest of his clothes in a neat pile, Inho went to the shower stall and turned on the tap. Immediately, a strong flow of warm water cascaded down onto his hand, and he had to smile in simple pleasure for such a luxury—no weak trickling, no waiting for the water to heat up, perfect temperature. He stepped under the showerhead with a long sigh, and emptied his mind, let the water and routine motions carry away his concerns, just for a few minutes.

When Inho exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips, Sangjun was lounging at the table, the unfinished glass of whisky in his hand.

Inho wasn't shy about his body, but the mobster's leering admiration made him want to squirm. He glanced away from the shamelessly roaming eyes but his steps didn't falter. And then he noticed it—a pair of handcuffs, sitting innocuously enough on the table.

Plucking the glass out of Sangjun's hand, Inho downed the rest of the drink, relishing the burn. "You're a pervert."

Sangjun grinned, stood up. "Well." He took back the empty glass to place it on the table and picked up the handcuffs. "It's also something of a precaution." 

Inho flinched at the first touch of metal on his cheekbone. Unwavering and unmoved, he held Sangjun's half-lidded gaze as the mobster traced a cold line along his jaw, slowly down his neck, collarbone, sternum...paused.

"You look like you've been wanting to punch me all day," Sangjun murmured, stepping away and tossing the handcuffs on his bed.

"Is that an invitation?"

"I welcome a bit of excitement in the bedroom."

Inho surged forward—Sangjun flinched back almost imperceptibly—but his follow-up punch was halfhearted, completely unserious. He just needed to work out some of the odd restlessness that had settled in his nerves earlier, which still hadn't died down and was actually compelling him to make a fucking game out this.

The mobster parried quickly enough, grabbed Inho's wrist and pushed, backing him up towards the bed and crowding into his space for a biting kiss. Inho automatically broke away from it, and gripped Sangjun's waist and twisted, flipping him. Keeping his hold on Inho, Sangjun landed with a grunt on the rough carpeting and used his momentum to unbalance Inho. A precarious instant as Inho staggered, and the towel, which had hung on bravely so far, slithered off his hips. It was a distraction that Sangjun took immediate advantage of, darting up and shoving Inho back onto the bed. 

Inho had barely regained his bearings when his wrist was snapped up in the restraint and roughly tugged up. Sangjun looped the short chain around one of the decorative metal bars of the headboard while Inho made an effort to gather the leverage to throw off Sangjun, but that wasn't working (which was actually somewhat impressive), and before Inho could land a sucker punch with his free hand, Sangjun twisted the arm and forced it down. 

The struggle was over in an instant, the ratchet of the handcuff sounding loud and final. Inho tugged his arms, testing the restraints even though he knew he was trapped. 

"That was a decent effort, but worryingly lacking for a bodyguard."

Inho sniffed. "If I had been serious, you wouldn't be conscious right now." 

The bedsheets were soft under Inho's naked back, a disturbingly pleasant contrast to the rougher fabric of Sangjun's trousers sliding over his abdomen as the mobster straddled him. From this angle, he got a good view of Sangjun's crotch and—even with the room's dim lighting—the very noticeable sign of interest stirring there. He flicked his gaze back up to the mobster's grinning face. 

Feeling off-balance from an unexpected surge of embarrassment, Inho fixed his gaze on the ceiling and mumbled, "Just get on with it."

Inho wasn't feeling very enthusiastic about this perverted shit, but he'd done his time in the ROK Marines. He knew how to grit his teeth and silently bear pretty much anything. And really, compared to all the other crap he'd endured, this was nothing. For fuck's sake, it was just sex—and he was pretty decent at it. Just, not with another man. Inho couldn't tamp down on the waves of apprehension roiling through his body at that prospect, jacking up his heart rate and making his nerves hum desperately.

Sangjun shifted his weight off Inho and went about his motions almost perfunctorily, taking out a small bottle of lubricant from his nightstand drawer and then starting to undress. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers...and stopped there. For some reason, that made Inho feel strangely vulnerable. 

He turned his head away from Sangjun's appraisal, and held still when a warm hand, callused and scratchy, slid up his inner thigh. A momentary illusion of tenderness, before Sangjun took Inho's right leg and hooked it over his clothed shoulder, gripping hard. Inho did  _not_  want to imagine what he looked like at the moment. He closed his eyes as the first intrusive finger, cold and slick from lube, pushed through. 

It didn't hurt, but it wasn't a comfortable sensation either—almost felt like he was getting a physical, though of course this uncontrollable energy belonged nowhere inside a military exam room. 

"Relax." 

The gruff command reminded Inho of the many times he'd whispered that into the ears of the girls he'd slept with. It was what he was trying to do already. There was zero point in making it difficult for himself when he'd resigned himself to this, but it was a struggle to get past the mental block.

Physical domination had rarely ever concerned Inho, submission wasn't a habit of his, but right now there wasn't much leeway to wrestle with shame or justifications or denials. He was human after all, and the physicality and warmth of carnal touch was something he could admit he needed. This wasn't an ideal situation though, and he tried not to focus on the sensations, but even with his discipline, the movements were distracting, shortening his breaths and forcing him to tighten his grip on the metal bar of the headboard.

A second finger joined the first, stretching and mercilessly prodding, occasionally hitting that annoyingly sensitive area that made Inho forget whatever he might have wanted to say. 

His mind kept rebelling, but it felt...—it pained Inho to admit it, but it felt kind of good, physically. And just distracting, overall. The rush of tingling nerves, the desperate hammering of his heart, Sangjun's hot breaths dancing across his heated skin... 

He obviously wasn't thinking very clearly.

"Didn't think you'd be so considerate," he rasped out after riding out some particularly toe-curling sparks. 

"You want me to skip the prep?" Sangjun laughed, a low, breathy sound. "I could, but this makes it more comfortable for me." He then abruptly removed his fingers to lube up his erection. 

There was an instant of calm, where Inho entertained a brief and completely silly thought that the mobster had had enough of this nonsense. The moment broke when fingers dug into his thigh again, forcing his back to tilt up at an awkward angle, and a rough hand spread his legs farther apart. 

"Don't think for one moment that I have your comfort in mind," was all the warning Inho was given before Sangjun unceremoniously shoved his cock in. 

Inho tensed up, biting back a groan. The sudden aching stretch and foreign, too-full sensation was much more uncomfortable than two fingers. It wasn't debilitating but it didn't mean he had to like it—fuck, he had to relax or this was going to be unnecessarily unpleasant. 

Sangjun didn't give Inho much of a chance to accommodate before he started moving. He thrust deep and hard, leaving Inho breathless from the unfamiliarity of the pain and the oddest, faintest traces of pleasure. Inho's heart pounded madly while he tried valiantly to gather himself, to adjust to the vigorous rhythm and force his body to cooperate. A few deep and even breaths, and he managed to relax, find his center. He focused on that inner quietude to filter out most of the physical sensations. 

The chafing at his wrists and the clink of metal, soft sheets rumpling under his back, harsh breathing and creaking bedsprings, the lewd sounds of sex and Sangjun's groans and bruising grip and the occasional flash of pleasure...it was a muted flurry of mixed stimulation, an inadequate counterpoint to the general discomfort that got Inho only half-hard and failed to take him to the edge. He endured the violation silently, willing his body to calm down, until Sangjun's movements stuttered as he found his release.

Inho opened his eyes to see Sangjun's flushed, satiated expression above him. Cock still buried deep, the mobster took a few moments to catch his breath before he opened his eyes, slipped out with a groan, and languidly sat back on his heels. There was an appreciative expression on his face.

"Fuck," he breathed, "I never get tired of this sight."

That was not a sentiment that Inho shared. He knew where the mobster's eyes were fixed, and the feeling of come leaking out of there was—...

Inho tried to close his legs in some instinctive attempt to preserve his modesty (what modesty? he had to laugh at himself), but the effort was impeded by Sangjun's hands gripping his knees. He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "You're disgusting."

Sangjun's hand idly brushed up Inho's thigh. "You just don't know how fuckable you look, Choi Inho," he said, voice low.

The last thing Inho wanted was a compliment about his current undignified state. He gave Sangjun a bored look. "If you wanted some passive thing to stick your dick into, a woman would've sufficed," he drawled, ignoring the fluttering touch of fingers teasing the skin at his hip, trailing closer to his quickly flagging half-erection.

Frowning, Sangjun stared back at Inho for a moment. "Women don't do it for me."

"...You're serious." The mob boss was a full-fledged homosexual. It was a difficult concept for Inho to accept without a massive heap of skepticism. 

"I can act well enough to keep up pretenses, but I enjoy men."

"Can't imagine there being many of those, sharing your preference. I'm surprised your dick hasn't atrophied from disuse. Or do you resort to coercion with all your partners?"

"There are enough willing men out there. But I do admit, taking guys like you down a peg gets me off," Sangjun said as he leaned down, propping his forearms on Inho's chest. "Start off proud and willful, end up begging like a whore."

"Don't delude yourself. You're not that good," Inho said lightly, keeping his eyes locked on Sangjun's. He refused to back down.

Sangjun narrowed his eyes. "Is that a dare?"

"It's what you make of it."

A short silence stretched between them before Sangjun's gaze flickered down. "You talk too much," he whispered, closing the distance between their faces.

Inho dealt with the kiss as clinically as he had with the sex. He opened his mouth for Sangjun, but when the opportunity arose naturally enough, he sucked in the mobster's bottom lip and bit down hard. Sangjun grunted, twitched away, but Inho held fast until the metallic tang of blood hit his tongue.

When Inho released him, Sangjun pulled away, scowling as he licked the blood welling up on his lip. Probably thinking about hitting Inho.

"You need to work on your technique," Inho quipped, braced for an inevitable physical retaliation. It was rather a surprise, the fact that he wasn't already being slapped around, and he wondered just how much he would have to push to get the reaction he'd been expecting throughout the entire ordeal...

But Sangjun only sat up, lifted himself off Inho and off the bed. "Maybe I do," was his only comment as he walked away toward the bathroom.

"Hey, asshole," Inho called after him, rattling his handcuffs a bit. "Uncuff me."

"You can handle that for a few more minutes," Sangjun tossed over his shoulder and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Inho sighed gustily and shifted around, pushing down the covers with his feet so he wasn't lying on the wet spot. He closed his eyes and used the muted sounds of the shower to help empty his mind, push aside the aches, ignore the annoying blossoming itch at his chest and the slight chill in the room. 

As much as he enjoyed the quaint luxuries of this place, it was definitely not where he belonged. Inho's mind flitted over to the small, ordinary concerns he hadn't had the chance to address since the mobster had set foot in Taegyu's storeroom. He needed to patch up his roof, take care of his landlady's leaky faucet (he'd been putting it off the last few days, he would fix that this weekend), make sure his dog was fed and take her out for a run. Soonyi was a well-trained Jindo through-and-through, so even if she were hungry, she probably wasn't barking up a storm to disturb the neighbors.

The moment Sangjun came out of the bathroom, Inho said, "Let me go. I have to feed my dog."

"What kind of shitty excuse is that?" Sangjun scoffed. His wet hair, without the gel to hold it back, was long enough to fall across his eyes. The sort of inappropriate length that high school teachers would have forcibly cut off during a uniform inspection.

"A valid one. Now uncuff me."

"Ask me nicely."

Inho raised an eyebrow. 

"Give me the respect I deserve and then we'll go from there."

'Deserve'...? Inho scoffed at the utter ridiculousness of that notion.

Inho knew when, where, and how respect was to be applied. He knew the many different kinds of inflection characterizing the various levels of respect in relation to social hierarchy. But there were limits to what he practiced in actuality, and he had never made it a habit to show deference to gangsters. 

"Oh, please, Director Lee..." Inho started in a wavering, sarcastic monotone. But he'd always been a shitty actor, and he could not for the life of him continue with the elevated language. He quickly gave up trying to humor the man. "Fucking let me go."

Sangjun's lips quirked in an odd little smile. He shrugged. "Your manners need a lot of work."

"It'll be a work in eternal progress," Inho grumbled. He didn't know why the mobster insisted on playing around like this. Couldn't he see how flat his attempts were? But Inho didn't say anything more incendiary out loud. He'd made some headway and he didn't want to spend the entire night tied to the damn bed.

Readily enough, Sangjun fished out the key from his vest pocket and placed it in Inho's hand. How nice of him.

Inho clumsily unlocked the handcuffs and sat up, rubbing his reddened wrists. He briefly entertained the thought of cuffing the mobster to his own bed—let him see for himself just how pleasant that was—but easily discarded the idea as a waste of time. He went to the bathroom for a quick rinse and threw on his clothes. When he came back out, fiddling with the clasps of his watch, Sangjun was lounging back on the bed, smoking.

Sangjun gave Inho one brief, expressionless glance before he closed his eyes, took a deep pull of his cigarette, and Inho gladly took the dismissal for what it was. 

He opened the door to see Hyechul standing off to the side, looking out the sealed window across the private elevator. Hyechul followed when Inho passed by him and they stood next to each other while they waited for the elevator.

"I can take myself home," Inho said when they reached the lobby. "Go babysit your boss."

"I'm supposed to drive you," Hyechul said, "Director Lee's orders." He kept stride as Inho exited the building.

Once outside, Inho leaned against a round support pillar and faced Hyechul, who waited patiently. "You have a cigarette on you?" Inho wasn't a heavy enough smoker to carry around a pack, but he indulged from time to time, and this was probably a good a time as any. The crisp air felt just right for one, too.

Hyechul promptly pulled out his pack. He even lit the cigarette for Inho, and as he inhaled deeply, Inho had to wonder what his life had come to, that he was bumming a cigarette off some mobster's grunt.

He watched as smoke trailed up into the night and dissipated without giving him any answers.

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing sex is so confusing lol  
> Words in general are confusing


	3. Inho gets acquainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho gets acquainted with his new job.

Inho woke up to the sound of Soonyi's barking. That was never a good sign. 

He threw off the warm covers with a sigh, the residual ache from last night momentarily tripping him up as he got up, and shrugged on a jacket before he opened the door.

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, and the cool, humid air promised a beautiful day. Soonyi was at the foot of the steps leading up to the rooftop, barking and straining at her leash. Inho crouched down at the threshold, calling to her, and she promptly stopped terrorizing the intruder to trot over to him. He scratched her sides and neck while he inspected the man who took the last cautious steps up onto the roof.

The gangster (he couldn't be anything else) was short and lean, with a weathered, angular face and a dark smudge of mustache that curled up slightly at the ends. Scars that looked like they were from beer bottles smashed over his head broke up what would've been an even buzzcut. A pinstripe suit was thrown over a pale pink shirt, and rings decorated half of his fingers. Inho would have to remind his landlady, Mrs. Jung, again to check in with him before unlocking the front gate for odd-looking strangers.

"Lil Bro has the strangest taste in guys, I fucking swear," the man grumbled, eyes warily trained on Soonyi. 

Keeping a hold of Soonyi's collar, Inho shushed her as she growled. When she backed down to sit next to Inho, the gangster relaxed and briefly looked Inho up and down critically. 

"Why's he gotta go after your ass when there's plenty young, pretty boys for him I don't fucking understand."

So, Sangjun's preference wasn't that big a secret. The way these guys went on, it didn't seem like such a big deal, but tension still gnawed at Inho's nerves. Who else knew? What did the rest of the mob think of Sangjun's proclivities? Inho couldn't fully shake off the persistent unease. But he ignored his worries for the time being.

Inho stood up slowly, took a few steps forward to loom over the gangster. "You're saying I'm not pretty."

The guy's face twitched as he leaned back, looking up at Inho with slightly wide eyes. "W-well I mean." He cleared his throat, eyes flickering down Inho's form. "Well, you're a good-looking fellow, but you don't got that-that _delicate_ look."

Inho gave the man a toothy grin and a rough pat on the cheek. "I should hope not," he said, moving back to give the gangster some space. Then he cut to the chase. "Who are you and why are you here?"

"Yu Minshik," he said, recovered from Inho's unfriendly display and holding out a hand. "That fucking asswipe Hyechul said to pick you up," Minshik went on as Inho humored the guy with a brief, decisive handshake.

"You're rather early."

"Yeah well, I'm pulling a redeye for this shit. S'not like you're some office-monkey anyway. Goddamn fucker shouldn't be calling in a pimp for morning business. You gonna invite me in?"

Inho looked down his nose at Minshik until he could feel the gangster's squirming discomfort. But the man wasn't all that threatening...and, what the hell. Not even half a day since his life had taken a surreally wrong turn. Inviting a gangster—a fucking degenerate  _pimp_ —into his home didn't seem like too strange an act.

While glancing around Inho's tiny, modest rooftop apartment, Minshik plopped himself down on a seat cushion at the small floor table in the living room. When Inho did the polite thing and offered something to drink, Minshik asked, "Got any booze?"

"A bit too early, no? Even for a thug like you," Inho remarked, but he still walked over to his small refrigerator to get his second-to-last bottle of cheap soju. He brought it and a small glass over to the mobster while he went to prepare tea for himself. There was a blessed minute of silence between them, as Inho poured some water into his beat-up kettle and the gangster uncapped the soju and downed his first shot.

" _Khhaaaaa_ ~ Tastes like _shit_ ," Minshik chirped and immediately poured himself another.

Inho yawned, stretching out the kinks in his body, and then really started the morning. He ignored the drunkard in his home while he puttered about, switching on the heat for his morning shower, refilling Soonyi's water and food, washing the several dirty dishes from yesterday.

Once Inho was standing still near the stove again, Minshik spoke up. "Hrm. You're the so-called Tiger." He sounded unimpressed. "Lil Bro's so fucking infatuated with you it's kinda hilarious. You look like some washed-up has-been."

"I am," Inho agreed as the kettle started whistling. He turned off the gas and let the water sit while he faced Minshik. "Your 'Lil Bro' is an idiot, holding onto some nonexistent past, in addition to being a blackmailing piece of rat shit."

"I know nothing about your guys' past," Minshik said lightly. "But it's really funny how fixated he was on getting you." He leaned back on his hands, _looking_  at Inho again, more thoroughly than he had earlier. His eyes were slightly narrowed, calculating, as they lingered on the elastic hem of very low-hanging pajama pants (and the glaring lack of underwear that evidenced), skimmed up over what was visible of Inho's bare torso under the open jacket, and studied his unshaven face. "I can see why he's so taken with you though, you're kinda his type," he said casually.

"And you're an expert on his 'type'," Inho bit out. His outward stance had been bold and poised while the gangster conducted his evaluation. But he was beginning to feel...uncomfortable and self-conscious, more than anything, about being subjected to that specific kind of appraising gaze from men. He didn't mind being regarded as a sack of meat to be potentially beaten to a pulp—fights were more interesting when his opponents underestimated him—and he didn't mind at all when women looked at him like something to be devoured, but in situations like this there was an extra layer of threat that raised his hackles.

"Kid needs someone to watch after him. I been doing years enough of that to know what he likes."

"Hm," Inho's mouth quirked up. "Dearest Uncle Minshik."

Minshik snickered. "I sure do look venerable enough for that, eh? Anyway, I sorta just fell in with him back when he was still a student. He's a pretty decent kid."

"Somehow, I just can't bring myself to trust anything a pimp has to say about his gangster boss," Inho said, turning around to finish preparing his favorite green tea. "You criminals have a distorted sense of right and wrong."

"Believe me, kid, when I say my Lil Bro's pretty tame. 'Specially when it comes to the business of flesh."

Inho didn't say anything as he continued to strain his tea.

"All I'm saying is, you coulda done a lot worse than my Lil' Bro. There's a lotta nasties out there."

"I'm quite sure most thugs don't even have a thing for scruffy, washed-up has-beens. I wouldn't be having this problem in the first place if it wasn't for him."

"Yeah...you got a point, I guess. But what can you do? He's being all—all  _nice_ to you though."

"Which definition of 'nice' are you even using?"

Minshik snickered and leered at Inho. "Try to have fun with it, yeah?" 

The safest, most worry-free option so far. Inho snorted.

He really didn't want to find out if Sangjun was 100% serious. Last night, after taking Soonyi out for a late-night jog around the neighborhood, he'd spent half an hour glaring at the phone, debating whether to call the police. The threat was real, but there was nothing _tangible_ as evidence. He didn't even know the specific criminal activities (aside from coercion) Sangjun engaged in, nor did he want to find out. He wasn't a detective on a crusade; there was no purpose to knowing, not when he was set on living a quiet life, one census statistic among millions.

And somehow, being blackmailed for his body, for _sex_ , seemed pathetic all-around, too shameful and trifling (not to mention absurd) to report to the authorities. It wasn't even a big deal anyway—just sex; he was definitely no stranger to that concept. Granted, it was homo sex... With that trailing thought, he'd gone straight to a dreamless sleep.

Inho blew on his steaming mug of tea. Just sex... When that was all he really needed to give, he was paying a negligible price for the safety of his loved ones...and apparently for a new, decently paying job. He was suddenly struck with cynical amusement: Sangjun was terrible at picking up guys.

"I always say to him, you know, I've all kindsa nice young bitches for you," Minshik was chattering on, and Inho refocused some of his attention. "But I swear Lil Bro fuckin' has a complex or something about prostitutes, wanders out all the way to fucking rival turf to pick out his lays, the crazy fucker. Well, he only did that  _once_  but I almost got a goddamn heart attack when I saw my Lil Bro come back all roughed up."

"What a pity he didn't come back a corpse," Inho murmured and sipped his tea.

"Oi, don't joke about that shit," Minshik snorted. "He's not one to die easy, anyway."

The talking petered off then, and, carrying his tea, Inho went to find his staidest-looking suit, which he hadn't touched after leaving his last office job, since that seemed to be the general style going for Hyechul. He left Minshik to his soju, going outside to hang out with Soonyi and bask in the sunrise while he finished his tea.

* * *

Inho met Hyechul at a grandma-style restaurant, with Minshik tipsily inviting himself to the table. They ordered a simple and hearty traditional breakfast and got down to business. Hyechul handed Inho a short but official-looking job contract, and Inho thoroughly read the entirety of it while he and the older men ate. When he reached the last page, Hyechul spoke up.

"It's the same freelance contract I drafted for myself," he explained. "Director Lee left it to me to work out the particulars of your employment."

"Infatuated, see?" Minshik snickered. He managed to keep his slightly slurring voice low as he commented further, "Lil Bro jus' wants this tight, perky ass _sooo bad_." He was reaching for Inho but he didn't actually dare to touch.

"You're being vulgar, Mr. Yu," Hyechul said, face blank, while Inho ignored Minshik.

"So," Inho began. "You're an 'armed' chauffeur."

"Mm. But my gun hasn't ever seen action during my stint."

"Am I even qualified to just...take on this job? Do I need a firearms license?"

"The only thing Director Lee wants is you. Details are irrelevant, but I'm sure you have basic skills that will otherwise serve as qualifications—"

"Oh yeah!" Minshik interrupted, spitting out flecks of rice as he went on, "Apparently the guy's supposed to have mad skills, didja know he used to be nicknamed 'Tiger'—"

"Stop." Inho pushed Minshik's face away so he wasn't contaminating the entire table with half-chewed food. "You're too old to have table manners this atrocious."

Minshik settled down and Inho returned his attention to Hyechul, who solemnly continued, "It's up to you whether you want to get a license." 

"No. It's too much of a hassle. Civilians have little reason to carry around firearms." Adding guns on top of being involved with a mobster didn't help anything.

Hyechul nodded. "I've gotten into a few scuffles, but all of them were close combat—knives and fists, standard. No one's brought guns to the fights I've been in, luckily enough. But you know as well as anyone that it's illegal for criminals to carry firearms."

He glanced at Minshik, who looked back with comically stuffed cheeks and wide eyes, arms raised and shaking his head.

"The job itself isn't complicated, simple personal security. I'll train you on the finer points as we go along, but for now all I need are some basics. You know how to drive?"

"I drove us here, since this old man got uselessly drunk. I also have a commercial driver's license."

"How familiar are you with this city?"

"Intimately." It was a fairly obvious answer, seeing as Inho spoke in quintessential Gyeongsang saturi, and Hyechul quirked a smile.

"Military background?"

"Marines, Blue Dragon, 2nd engineer battalion."

"That's more than a good starting point."

"And you?"

"I fought in Vietnam, 9th Infantry Division, for little over a year before the ROK troops were pulled out. Then I worked my way up in the KNPA's Combat Police division for about a decade, until I left to start up freelancing."

"Why did you leave?"

"Didn't have the ambition to be in charge of dealing with all the politics."

"And so you decided to be a gangster instead."

The faint crow's feet around Hyechul's eyes crinkled as he held Inho's stare. "I wanted something quieter. And technically, I'm on the payroll of the managing director of a burgeoning construction and shipping corporation that has very legitimate ties with powerful Japanese companies. I'm not a gangster, just like I'm sure you aren't."

"Ahhh, Mr. Kim, hearing your constant rejections still hurts something fierce," Minshik lamented, and Hyechul leaned across the table to slap his head.

Inho absently played with the paper in his hands. "Sangjun hired you, knowing of your law enforcement background?"

"He didn't care, took it as a novelty. He was—and still is—young." Hyechul gulped down the last of his stew. "...It's a good job, with enough excitement to keep me on my toes."

Inho read through the contract again. The terms were fair; it felt like any other job he'd held. The contract held for six months, after which he could renew it (yeah right) if his employer agreed. Setting aside Sangjun's threat of harm toward Inho's friends and family, and the unsavory fact that he was working for a mobster, Inho had to admit (try to convince himself, anyway) that his situation wasn't so bad, if Hyechul's account was anything to go by. And what choice did he have anyway, after walking out of Taegyu's store yesterday? He still needed to pay his rent, eat, take care of Soonyi.

The decision was clear; Inho signed the papers and Hyechul gathered them up. Then they went over schedules. There was one other guy Inho had yet to meet, who had two morning-evening shifts. Hyechul was in charge of the bulk of the chauffeuring, but he was transferring nearly all of the evening-night shifts over to Inho.

"Like I've said, it's not a demanding job. We're mostly just for appearance's sake. Your essential tasks are to drive Director Lee around, stick to him like a flea when he goes out to meetings, make sure you have his back. There might be some day planning involved, but he has a secretary for that. And...it's really not your job to tell him your opinions, but you're a special case, you two can work out those issues—" 

"In the bedroom," Minshik interrupted again, leering at Inho. "I'm sure you guys got _tons_ of clashing opinions there."

Inho shot Minshik a quelling look. As much as he enjoyed having sex, Inho firmly believed that it just wasn't something people should talk about freely, or make implications about so crudely, especially out in public over breakfast with near-strangers. Talking about a taboo was even worse. But...since they were on that topic... He opened his mouth, looked straight at Hyechul— 

Whose expression was as placid as ever. Inho shut up and decided to take a different, more proper route. He bowed his head and said, "I look forward to working with you, hyung-nim."

Hyechul outright grinned at that, while Minshik spluttered on his food. "Welcome to the team, Mr. Choi."

Minshik leaned into Inho. "Hey, you should call me hyung-nim, too," he nearly whined, in what Inho guessed was supposed to be an attempt (a terrible one) at being 'cutesy'.

Inho scoffed; calling a pimp 'hyung-nim' felt too wrong, especially when Inho was decidedly _not_ a gangster. He ignored Minshik in favor of eating the rest of his breakfast, while the pimp sighed dramatically and moped.

"Right," Hyechul said, once he and Inho were done. "We need to get your contract looked over and your schedule approved by Director Lee. Let's get going."

"Oi, Hyechul, you're paying for me too, right? For doing you this favor?"

"Yes, Minshik."

"Score~!"

"Are you sober enough to drive yourself?"

"Oi oi, 'course I am!"

* * *

"...I thought he'd have a contingent of loyal grunts to help him greet the day," Inho commented as he walked beside Hyechul towards Sangjun's apartment. Not that he knew what Sangjun-the-mobster's rank was (he had just assumed). It was better not to know too much when he was already toeing the line between average citizen and criminality.

"The majority of the time, he's a managing director, not a mobster, and Director Lee keeps things low-key." Hyechul rang the doorbell. "You'll get to see his entourage soon enough."

The door opened, and Inho didn't know what he was expecting when he looked at Sangjun for the first time under daylight. It was technically only their second meeting, and within less than a day, even though it seemed like the time between these meetings had been stretched out. The mobster was sharply dressed, looked...elegant, in tailored black and dark grays. Inho, for all his ancient aristocratic roots, had never mastered the patience for dressing half as stylishly as Sangjun.

"Good morning, Director Lee," Hyechul greeted Sangjun with a bow. He pushed Inho's head down when Inho didn't immediately copy Hyechul.

Sangjun nodded, "Mr. Kim. Inho."

Inho kept one ear open as Hyechul briefed Sangjun on the day's agenda. He didn't even need to talk to Sangjun the whole way to the car; maybe he wouldn't have to for the whole day.

His contentment was shattered when, as he moved to get into the front passenger seat, Hyechul briefly shook his head and indicated the backseat. Inho raised an eyebrow, trying to stare down the older man standing across him. Hyechul had an impenetrable pokerface, but Inho was beginning to learn the subtle signs of amusement that the man wanted Inho to pick up.

"Mr. Choi..."

With a small sigh, Inho relented.

Sangjun watched as Inho slipped into the car and went straight to ignoring everyone. The silence in the car grew suffocating, even with the radio turned on to the news, but Inho wasn't there to initiate anything. Next to him, Sangjun's chain-smoking was literally suffocating, and Inho rolled down the heavily tinted window shortly after Sangjun started his second cigarette.

"You should get some tailored suits," Sangjun murmured. "The one you're wearing doesn't fit you well."

"It's functional," Inho retorted, staring out the open window.

"Did Mr. Kim explain your job requirements?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Silence.

"Is your—...are you feeling okay?" Sangjun asked, stiffly. 

"Yes." Inho wasn't a delicate glass flower. He also didn't need the man's false concern hours after the fact.

"It was your first time, right?"

"...Hm." 

These were questions that should have been asked last night, in Sangjun's apartment. Not right now; not with an audience. They grated on Inho's nerves, how 'considerate' (and painfully forced, and highly improper) they were, in light of Sangjun's self-centered pushiness yesterday.

Inho narrowed his eyes at the rear-view mirror, where Hyechul briefly caught his annoyed gaze but continued to blithely ignore the awkward, inappropriate conversation. The thing was, Sangjun's forwardness last night at least hadn't given much room for this current brand of yawing discomfort, where he was trying—badly—to be something he wasn't. It threw Inho off, that Sangjun was keeping his distance, lowering his tail and hesitating.

The nervous silence hung on for a few more moments, before Sangjun abruptly reached over and grabbed Inho's tie, yanking him away from the window.

Action, not words. Inho knew the bastard would stop the facade soon enough.

"Too early for this, isn't it?" he muttered.

Sangjun cupped Inho's jaw, thumb absently scraping across the stubble. "Are you going to bite me again?"

Inho kept his eyes fixed on Sangjun's roaming gaze. "What do you think?"

"...Try to restrain yourself."

"I can't make that promise," Inho murmured. And why was he going along with this?

Sangjun took the gamble. He leaned in to initiate, starting off with several firm, close-mouthed kisses. Once his tongue gained tentative entry into Inho's mouth, however, Inho took over the rhythm and the pace.

When it came to kissing, something Inho very much enjoyed doing, he rather prided himself on his technical skill, on the dominating but gentle finesse that women seemed to love...

He closed his eyes and, vaguely substituting in his mind's eye a beautiful woman (and full, pouting lips touched with gloss), focused on his actions. His tongue dragged over a soft lower lip—not fruity-tasting though—warm friction drawing out a breathless moan, skimmed across teeth and slid hot and wet against slick tongue. 

Hands pulled at his shirt, and he moved with it, eyes still closed. He slid a hand up past a stiff collar, pressing his fingers to the short hairs at the back of a strong neck while his thumb roved over sharp jawline and played with the soft skin near the earlobe, rubbed against an obvious Adam's apple. Patiently, regulating his breathing, Inho kept the kiss languid, controlled, preventing any clumsy attempts to tip this over to passion that he wasn't feeling right now.

Inho allowed the kiss to continue, noting with satisfaction the increasingly flustered breathing and the grasping hands at his shirt, until he bit down—gently—on Sangjun's lower lip. The mobster flinched and Inho opened his eyes, smirking as he freed Sangjun.

"...Almost as good as a woman's," Inho breathed against the mobster's parted lips, and then flicked his gaze down as he rubbed away a bit of moisture from the lower lip with a rough thumb.

After a wordless moment of slightly wide-eyed staring, a light flush spread across his cheeks, Sangjun abruptly pulled back and turned away. His expression and body language were shuttered, not that Inho cared to decipher those anyway.

Inho slid back to his side of the car and looked back out the open window; he didn't think he could look at Hyechul without feeling embarrassed. But he was at least able to enjoy the rest of the ride in peace.

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- soju (소주) = alcoholic beverage made of ethanol (from sweet potatoes/tapioca; due to food shortages, use of rice in alcohol production was banned mid-1960s~late-1990s) and diluted with water  
> \- Gyeongsang saturi (경상 사투리) = regional dialect/accent/intonation used in Busan and other parts of southeastern Korea  
> \- hyung-nim (형님) = "respected older brother"; 'hyung' means "elder brother" and is often used by males to address older males who aren't necessarily blood-related, while the honorific suffix '-nim' shows formal respect towards the addressee


	4. Inho settles into his actual job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho settles into his actual job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to deliver more of the smut that I'm actually supposed to practice writing, but...sorry  
> (...I don't know what I'm doing with this story OTL)

The towering office building where Sangjun conducted his legal endeavors was relatively new, with the corporation's logo emblazoned across one face. Hyechul parked the car in the underground garage and Inho trailed after him as they walked a few paces behind Sangjun, who hadn't spoken a single word after that little good-morning kiss. Once the director disappeared behind the polished wooden door of his 20th-floor office, Hyechul guided Inho through a flurry of activity.

Inho was first introduced to Sangjun's secretary, Ms. Park, a capable-looking bespectacled woman with a no-nonsense set to her face. Then it was a brisk tour of the relevant offices, the most important being the security control room, where Hyechul greeted the present security personnel while Inho was supposed to be provided with his own high-level access ID badge, except he hadn't thought to bring any of his official documents.

After bussing to and from his apartment, getting his security clearance settled, and receiving a more detailed crash course of his frankly uncomplicated and largely uneventful duties, Inho was sent away to take the rest of the afternoon off. He was supposed to start as soon as the issue of his _not having a car_ was addressed. Hyechul, understanding the whims of his employer and being a supportive hyung-nim, said he would take care of it.

It all felt very...informal. Inho was no stranger to informal, but the shining glass monolith of the corporate building didn't seem conducive to any deviations from red tape and rigid procedures.

But maybe that was a testament to Sangjun's position in the company. It made Inho wonder. How did Sangjun balance his obligations? What exactly did he deal in? How much of the company's success was actually legitimate? ...All useless questions; they would only lead to complications.

He put all of it aside when he stepped into his home.

It was strange not to be working at this time, so he promptly busied himself. He finished his chores, fixed Mrs. Jung's leaky faucet, took Soonyi on a long walk along the harbor, picked up groceries on the way back.

He'd had enough time that afternoon to come to terms with the sudden shift of routine and with himself.

So it wasn't a surprise when his reading—which he often did sitting outside, with Soonyi's pleasant company—was interrupted by faint voices down at the front gate.

Inho set his book down and approached the edge of the rooftop. He leaned over the side to see a familiar black car idling across the narrow street and Hyechul speaking with the landlady. Great.

"Hyung-nim," he called down. When Hyechul looked up and spotted Inho, he said something to Mrs. Jung, backing off, and gestured for Inho to come down.

* * *

Inho preferred to get straight to the point. He stepped into the bedroom, shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, reached for the hem of his shirt.

"Eager, are you?"

Come in, do his job, leave. A simple, clinical approach to whatever the hell he was doing with this mobster. He wouldn't necessarily call it being 'eager'.

Inho tossed his shirt over the footboard of the bed as Sangjun stood flush against his back, hands resting warmly on the skin just above the low waist of Inho's jeans. Inho wasn't _eager_ , but so far, nothing too unpleasant was dampening his mood.

"Are you going to be a good boy for me today?" he murmured softly into Inho's ear.

The man had to go and open his mouth again.

Inho pulled away, grimacing. He didn't like that tone of voice and despised it even more that _that_ string of words was being used in this current context because (though he supposed some guys might find it sexy) it immediately reminded him of school-standard corporal punishment, of teachers' and parents' reprimands after he'd been particularly bratty with his behavior. In short, a total mood-killer. He didn't need any more deterrents.

"Why don't you go visit one of Minshik's bars?" Inho was making a wild guess; he didn't actually know the pimp's business. "He probably has enough boys who'd love to entertain you."

"Fuck. You're no fun at all."

Inho scoffed at the rather childish tone. "Your definition of 'fun' escapes me."

When it came to sex, Inho went with actions. He wasn't...good, at dirty talk. He didn't mind it when women wanted/needed to vocalize, and he liked to check in with his partner to make sure she wasn't uncomfortable, but if there was one thing that completely failed to appeal to him, it was any sort of talk that was meant to infantilize or degrade. Anyway, sex was supposed to be pleasurable and cathartic, and for Inho, that generally involved his mouth being occupied with pretty much everything _but_ words.

And he wasn't here to meekly listen to shit that he thought was better suited for brothels; he refused to entertain that brand of play. But otherwise, he honestly wasn't opposed to the possibility of finding some measure of fun tonight. Acting like an aggravating little shit to the mobster was (un)fortunately starting to become part of that fun.

In an obnoxiously condescending gesture (he'd had enough practice as a kid), Inho looked down his nose at Sangjun. "We're here to fuck, and I could do with a lot less of your shitty mood-killing talk. Save it for the whorehouses."

Sangjun was visibly bristling.

Unwilling to curb his immature antagonism, Inho leaned in to crisply, softly enunciate his next deliberately inflammatory words. "Fucking low-life dogshit kkangpae-sekki."

Sangjun scowled, his fists clenching at his sides; Inho had barely flicked his gaze down, when—there it was, finally.

Inho had been anticipating that strike ever since he first met the man, waiting for the petty violence that thugs couldn't control.

He turned his head to ease the impact of the backhand. Blood thrummed in his veins, and his cheekbone throbbed in time with his rising heart rate. "You hit like a child." It was deliberate provocation, fueled by the addicting surge of adrenaline from the assault. His combative spirit was welcoming an opportunity for a fight.

"...You didn't dodge," muttered Sangjun, a rather confused-looking frown creasing his brow.

"Come on, Director Lee." Inho hooked his thumbs in his pockets. He didn't want the momentum to stop just yet, not when the rush of blood and heat was making him feel alive. "You can hit harder than that. Put some muscle into it."

"You _want_ me to hit you."

"I want you to _try_. I let you get the better of me yesterday, but I won't make it so easy for you tonight."

"What, I have to fight for every little fuck?" Exasperation in his voice joined the frown on his face.

"Oh, let's call it a game. I think it's fun. Didn't you say you welcomed excitement in the bedroom?"

Sangjun didn't respond as he cocked his head slightly, and then his frown dissolved into a sharp, predatory smirk. As if he'd made a delightful little discovery.

"Should also help keep you on your toes," Inho went on, baring his own teeth at Sangjun. "You'll go soft sitting in that cushioned director's chair for so much of the day—"

If Inho was a tiger, then Sangjun was a cobra.

Last night had apparently only been a teaser, on both their parts. Inho had been aware of just how quick Sangjun could be, but his speed today nearly had Inho toppling back on the first strike.

Inho regained his balance swiftly though, and just barely dodged the next punch that almost made him completely lose his balance. Sangjun's style seemed to be defined by economical movements, graceful in their minimalism, and probing offense. As Inho continued to block and parry, to twist away and conduct his own offense, he thought that personal security seemed redundant for Sangjun's legal facade.

There was enough space in the bedroom for them to avoid knocking over anything, and they kept up the sparring for several minutes before Inho decided to end it. It wasn't a completely conscious decision—the need to win had always fueled Inho's more serious fights, and this was a decent session, unlike yesterday's spiritless, confused non-attempt.

Sangjun was skilled enough, but Inho was also quick when he wanted to be, when he could feel the heady certainty of victory lacing the adrenaline rush in his blood. He ducked and swept his leg out, catching Sangjun's ankle, and surged up to tackle him the rest of the way down onto the floor. Sangjun was winded from the impact, but kept enough of his wits about him to grapple with Inho.

The savage struggle lasted for only a moment before Inho caught Sangjun's wrists, slamming them down onto the carpet and keeping them immobile in a punishing grip.

Sangjun's arms strained to break free while their legs tangled viciously as they both tried to gain some leverage over the other, but Inho wasn't feeling lenient right now. He used his weight to keep the mobster pinned until the man abruptly stopped, huffing in annoyance.

They stared at each other, unwavering, for several heartbeats.

This sort of rough prelude was a novelty for Inho. He'd never felt compelled towards aggression with any of the women he'd slept with, but Sangjun made Inho feel...violent, and he could take whatever Inho dished out. Inho wasn't sure what exactly he felt about that, aside from a strange jolt of satisfaction and dark, tingling excitement.

Their labored breaths mingled raggedly until one of them moved and suddenly, Inho's mouth was sliding over Sangjun's.

It was the same sort of unhurried, patient kiss Inho had given earlier that day, in sharp contrast to the wild scuffle that had led up to it. He calmly ran his tongue just inside the seams of Sangjun's obediently parted lips, and the man's unrestrained moan reverberated pleasantly through Inho.

The languid kiss was doing good things to Inho's already-stimulated cardiovascular system, made him welcome Sangjun's erratic rutting. Their lower bodies had started a rhythm of their own, pressing and rubbing against the other's growing erections, while Inho was playing with soft, pliant lips. But when he felt Sangjun determinedly trying to set a rougher, more frantic pace with the kiss, Inho pulled his head back.

Sangjun tried to follow the movement, his moistened lips parted in wanton need, but was obstructed by his trapped wrists; he scowled—an expression rendered ineffective by his panting—as Inho smirked.

Inho kept his mouth just out of reach of Sangjun's, but close enough to breathe his air as they continued their rough, relentless grinding. He enjoyed dry sex with women, and it wasn't that much different with a man...the friction, dizzying heat, steadily building pressure—all of it seemed right, and fuck if all those ragged groans of frustrated pleasure didn't go straight to his cock.

It didn't matter, apparently, that he was doing this with a man—a blackmailing piece-of-shit gangster at that. This was something new, and Inho was discovering that his hormones, when he didn't actively resist them, apparently weren't so discriminating where signs of pure physical pleasure were concerned.

Inho ghosted his lips down a clean-shaven jaw, down the vulnerable expanse of defined neck muscles. He paused for a moment and breathed lightly into the shadowed dip of jugular notch, the collar of Sangjun's partly open shirt brushing his cheek, before he moved his lips up again to bite the juncture between neck and shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to hurt.

"F-fu _uuck_ ," Sangjun groaned as Inho continued to nip and suck, his arms straining against the iron grip even as he rolled his head to give Inho better access.

So he liked this, Inho vaguely noted. He refused to let go of Sangjun's wrists, intent on leaving painful marks on the willingly offered stretch of lightly tanned skin. The saltiness and the unfamiliar but oddly intoxicating musk on his tongue made him lightheaded, and he reveled in the sounds of harsh, slightly pained breathing and the feeling of the sturdy body writhing under him.

He didn't know how long he'd been at it when he pulled back to assess the third and last darkening mark. His hips continued to move in quick, anticipatory rhythm with Sangjun's desperate rutting, and only moments later—with a breathless, uninhibited groan, head thrown back—the man actually _came_ from that. Inho vaguely marveled at this as he gathered himself and finally released his grip, pushing himself up to straddle Sangjun's thighs.

A pause, and then Sangjun lifted his arm, flexing the blood back into his fingers while he looked at his wrist for an impassive moment, before dropping it to the floor again and closing his eyes.

As both men's breathing slowed and Inho came down from his high, the atmosphere in the room became tense.

Inho wasn't sure what was supposed to come next. His mind was now fully registering the fact that he'd lost quite a lot of rational sense, to act like a savage—pathetically enslaved by the passions of the body—and practically force himself on—...fuck, he was no better than the trash he despised.

He stood up abruptly, stumbling back a bit, his erection forgotten as his gut churned. He looked around for his shirt.

"We're not done here," Sangjun said huskily.

Inho paused his search to raise an eyebrow at the man.

Sangjun sat up, apparently not all that concerned about what had to be an uncomfortable mess in his trousers. "Don't tell me you're tired out already."

"My girl's waiting for me," Inho said automatically, willing his body to calm down as he finally remembered where the article of clothing was.

"Only minutes ago you were so cooperative." Sangjun had gotten up. He took the shirt from Inho's loose grip and tossed it away behind him, and then his hand settled on Inho's hair, tugging his head down slightly to speak against his lips. "She can wait a little longer."

Inho hesitated.

Really. What the hell was he doing? Sure, he'd accepted this, but...—

He tamped down on the cowardly indecision. Yes, he was curious. The last time had been rather abrupt; he hadn't been very prepared mentally, and he might have overreacted. Kind of.

Inho didn't say anything, letting go of a fraction of the tension in his body to allow Sangjun to push him back, into the wall. They kissed again lazily as Sangjun's fingers brushed up the tented denim at Inho's groin, caught the zipper and carefully pulled it down.

Eyes closed, Inho kept one hand clenched against the wall, the other raised to grasp the back of Sangjun's neck, slide into coarse hair. When the thin fabric of Inho's boxers was his only obstacle, Sangjun broke away.

"Mmn, so my Tiger _does_ know how to be compliant," he murmured into Inho's ear, palming the erection through the cloth. He smoothed his hand up, over the cut of Inho's abs, teasingly brushed his knuckles down the light trail of hair, and dipped his fingers in between hot skin and soft elastic.

Inho was panting lightly. He was honest enough with himself tonight to just feel, enjoy the touch.

Sangjun's hand, slick with precum, worked steadily and firmly. A few agonizingly slow strokes, and then, with a full-body caress and fingers tugging down the boxers, he kneeled down.

Inho opened his eyes, looked down to see those reddened lips tantalizingly close...huh. He was also honest enough to admit that the man looked good down there. _Really_ good.

His fingers clawed the wall behind him, while his other hand gripped long strands of hair to mess up the style even more, as Sangjun leaned in without further preamble. He placed one hand on Inho's hip, fingers rubbing aimless patterns, and wrapped the other around the base of Inho's cock, played with the skin there as he licked and kissed his way up the shaft.

Inho had missed this. How long since the last...? More than several months.

He watched as Sangjun paused at the head to lap up the fluid beading at the slit. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning softly like he just couldn't get enough...which Inho didn't quite understand.

But...then again, this technically shouldn't be so much different from going down on women. Inho always enjoyed giving his beautiful partners that pleasure, and those who happily returned the favor had been as eager as Sangjun seemed to be. Eating out a woman, sucking off a man...same difference...? He was clinically entertaining such thoughts when Sangjun just took all of Inho's not inconsiderable length into his mouth and down his throat, without gagging.

...What an interesting skill. 

Inho couldn't help the soft moan that accompanied his long exhale at the hot, wet suction as those skilled lips and tongue dragged up and then back down in easy repetitions. It was a feat not to just fuck that sinfully inviting mouth; he still had that control over himself.

Most people (himself included, and especially the types of women he tended to have sex with) disliked that shit, and Inho would never do it without explicit consent anyway because anything else would make the act an utterly, abhorrently demeaning one, but this was probably the best oral he'd received in ages... _and the guy's a damned kkangpae anyway, he's done worse things regarding matters of sex, he doesn't_ deserve _that kind of decency..., and since when did you start thinking this way about one of your favorite pastimes, Inho?_

Resisting the urge to take over was starting to make Inho's knees quiver dangerously. Trying to recover from this disturbing show of weakness, he breathlessly joked, "I thought you said my comfort wasn't your concern. Going sweet on me already?"

Sangjun's lips popped off and he panted shallowly over the head of Inho's cock. A light flush livened the tan of his strong, angular face, and a string of unbroken precum was decorating his swollen bottom lip...a strangely captivating sight that Inho couldn't tear his eyes away from. He was gazing up at Inho (who'd shut right up) with an inscrutable look.

But quickly enough, his eyes traveled back down and disappeared under thick lashes, and he wrapped his lips around Inho again. His hand was pumping at the base, leisurely stroking and massaging, as his tongue continued to work.

Inho's hand spasmed around the hair he has gripping, he was close...just a bit more—

And then Sangjun just stopped, keeping a hand wrapped firmly around Inho's throbbing erection. Inho had just enough self-discipline not to express his frustration out loud.

"You're right," murmured Sangjun, belatedly and very casually answering Inho's remark, "I nearly forgot myself there."

With a speed and strength that Inho nearly forgot Sangjun possessed, the mobster released Inho to grab the hand in his hair, twisting viciously enough to force Inho to stumble clumsily with the momentum. The clothes around his legs hindered Inho's movements, and before he could regain his balance, he was bent face-first over the bed, with one arm twisted behind him.

Somewhat disoriented and more than distracted enough, Inho grunted as the grip at his neck tightened. His free arm scrabbled for purchase, while his cock rubbed against the side of the mattress.

A wave of absolute mortification at his undignified position rendered him wordless, but he closed his eyes, and he didn't resist the hand shoving his face into the sheets, even when he could feel Sangjun's still-clothed erection pressing against him.

"You can still fight back, Choi Inho," Sangjun growled through his heavy breathing.

As if Inho needed that goading reminder.

And yet, he still didn't struggle, merely clenched his free hand in the sheets as adrenaline kept rushing through his veins. Heart pounding, breaths short, and mind apparently completely lost—probably from the frustration of so abruptly being denied his orgasm—Inho gave in. He rocked back slightly against Sangjun, who flinched; a tiny, abortive movement that shouldn't have felt so pronounced.

But Inho had made his choice, he was hyperaware of what he'd just done and what might come next, and...he was even anticipating it.

"Ohh...you fucking _whore_ ," breathed Sangjun, and Inho could hear the grin in those words.

If there was one thing, though, that killed Inho's enthusiasm, it was this sort of shit. "Seriously, your bedroom talk is a real turnoff. Just shut up and do it so I can go home," growled Inho, words half-muffled by the sheets.

Sangjun hummed thoughtfully. "For someone with such particular turnoffs, you have an interesting approach to sex with men," he commented, tone amused and almost teasing, as he rolled his hips against Inho, who shivered at the slide of faintly prickly fabric against his skin.

Inho probably should be doing any number of things that didn't involve convincing his body to yield, but he was enthralled by a dark current of excited curiosity. It kept him compliant when he heard the rustle of clothing behind him, kept him from resisting when he felt fingers spreading his cheeks and a silky hardness settling in between them.

He blinked, momentarily confused. The hot slide of engorged skin against his was...weird. Not unpleasant. Just—unfamiliar, the friction oddly stimulating. Right. So he had a bit more time to prepare for the 'main' event.

More of his tension bled away as Sangjun let go of his wrist. Inho clutched the bedsheets as he allowed his upper body to sink into the mattress, while callused hands leisurely roamed down his back. An unskilled not-quite-massage that Inho was hard-pressed not to relax into, even with the steady, distracting grinding against him. He sighed in pleasure as Sangjun took his time, for some reason Inho didn't care to figure out.

When was the last time he'd enjoyed an actual massage? Inho thought back to his last long-term sex friend, when he'd been working as an architecture firm office-monkey. A tall, strong-boned and pretty woman who had a delightfully tinkling laugh. She was great wife material, except she hadn't been interested in settling down—uncommon for women, but that had suited Inho just fine. She'd been a trained masseuse and, before they separated on good terms, she'd been accepted to a chiropractic school. Inho smiled softly; they'd celebrated her achievement together, with expensive wine followed by several rounds of great sex. But Inho supposed this would do.

By the time those hands were kneading his ass, Inho was feeling relaxed and agreeable enough to disregard the teasing slap on one cheek and listen to the gruff "Get on the bed, on your stomach."

Inho snorted, stepping out of the tangle of his jeans and underwear, but he did as he was told, grabbing a couple pillows at the last second to prop himself. He hoped Sangjun wouldn't have the energy for another round afterwards.

The fingers were generously lubed and worked quickly. There was barely any preparation this time, but Inho was psychologically ready when he felt the head of Sangjun's cock entering him, with only a little difficulty and just enough discomfort to keep him grounded. He supposed he should (somewhat) appreciate that, at the least, Sangjun was considerate enough to use proper lubrication. And he was being patient. He eased in, pulled out, repeated the movements as he went deeper with every roll of his hips.

Inho closed his eyes, allowed himself to surrender, enough to take sensual pleasure from the touch, and the heat, and the penetrations that left behind a dully throbbing burn, vaguely pleasant in the sort of way his muscles stung after a hard workout. His body didn't seem to mind it; his erection was still hard and aching for relief.

He buried his face in the sheets and slid his arm down, but before he could move his hand even halfway to its destination, Sangjun roughly pinned down the wrist. And not a second later, Inho nearly choked on an inhale when Sangjun hit that fucking annoyingly sensitive spot. He did it again, and again, until Inho was gasping out his breaths, practically squirming and having to bite down on his lip to restrain his voice.

But soon enough, to Inho's wavering relief, the targeted pleasure eased as Sangjun started to pound deeper, more wildly, into him, with enough vigor to rattle the bedframe. The almost violent pace was rekindling some of Inho's competitive spirit, and it was strange to feel that way during sex, but he...didn't want to act on it. He arched back only occasionally, interrupting the frenetic rhythm to meet some of the rough thrusts, but otherwise allowed Sangjun to maintain his fervent pace as he took his pleasure.

With each forceful slam of skin on heated skin, Inho's erection grazed the soft sheets. He fumbled to reach for it again, but Sangjun's hand wrapped around him first, pumping him as lips and teeth brushed his neck, shoulders, back, and Inho, in a near daze, returned to kneading the rumpled sheets in his fists.

The heat, nerves sparking along his skin, they were almost too much, but he kept his mind open and grit his teeth around the dizzying pain-pleasure to let the carnal sensations wash over him, steadily lead him towards the brink that he hadn't reached in a while.

The rhythm faltered, eased.

A low, satisfied groan filled Inho's ears from above, and Sangjun's hips jerked as he came, rode out his orgasm while he kept pumping Inho until finally—...

Inho exhaled into the haphazard folds of the bedsheets, feeling the last vestiges of nervous tension splintering inside him, bleeding out of what felt like liquefied muscles. It was almost alarming how absolute his release felt.

Sangjun breathed hard against the back of Inho's neck. "Fuck..." he rasped, once he'd calmed down enough. His fingers traced the lines of Inho's arm and shoulder. "You're beautiful."

Yeah. Sure. Inho scoffed.

He allowed Sangjun, still buried inside, to rest on top of him for a few moments, until his sensitized nerves complained. He halfheartedly tried to push the dead weight off, but when that failed to detach the man from his back, he put some more of his remaining strength into the next shove.

Sangjun huffed. "So impatient," he murmured as he slid out and rolled off.

Ignoring the uncomfortable trickle of fluid accompanying the sudden emptiness, Inho didn't bother to reply as he sat up. He took a moment to mentally shake off the post-sex haze, compartmentalize the experience.

He got up, picked up his clothing, and headed into the bathroom. For the next few minutes, he made good use of the luxurious shower to rinse off the stickiness...and to not think. The strong flow of refreshingly lukewarm water helped to gather the threads of meditative quietude that reestablished Inho's calm center.

And then he was out and headed home, finally.

He scrubbed a hand through his damp hair as he strode toward the open door of the bedroom, glanced disinterestedly over at Sangjun, who was stretched out naked on the sheets.

"Good night, Mr. Choi," he said, grinning around his cigarette. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Inho merely lifted a hand in insolent farewell as he left. He wasn't going to maintain a professional facade in this highly _un_ professional context.

He closed the door behind him with a sigh and took the elevator down to the lobby. He walked past the cluster of neatly trimmed flowering bushes that lined the main driveway into the apartment complex, made a turn at the corner into a narrow side street, and came face-to-face with a small surprise.

"Mr. Choi." Hyechul was leaning against the door of his car, at the periphery of the circle of light from a streetlamp.

"Hyung-nim..." Inho trailed off, glancing at his watch. "It's late."

Hyechul shrugged minutely.

"It's kind of awkward having you wait around while I—..." he cut himself off and gestured vaguely, feeling bashful around the older man.

"I carry around a book for times like this," said Hyechul, lifting the thick paperback in his hand. "And when I get bored with that, I think about my lovely wife." His expression had visibly softened.

"Hmm. I should go find a wife of my own," Inho half-joked. "You know, I can take myself home, hyung-nim," he drawled, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

"And you're going to have to from now on. But I'm still responsible for you tonight, Mr. Choi."

Despite his earlier protest, Inho was already opening the passenger door, welcoming the prospect of a comfortable ride home. A bone-deep soreness was starting to radiate up his back. Not something he couldn't easily handle, but he was tired, and the car had plush seats.

Hyechul spoke up again after he made the turn into the wide main street. "This is another task of yours, once the director moves on to another source of amusement. Make sure his partners get home comfortably."

Inho laughed softly at Hyechul's matter-of-fact assurance. "I look forward to the day he gets tired of me."

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- hyung-nim (형님) = "respected older brother"; 'hyung' means "elder brother" and is often used by males to address older males who aren't necessarily blood-related, while the honorific suffix '-nim' shows formal respect towards the addressee  
> \- kkangpae-sekki (깡패 새끼) = 'kkangpae' means "gangster" (lit.), 'sekki' means "bastard/son of a bitch"; mashed together into an emphatic insult


	5. Inho gets a break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho gets a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe too slice-of-life (and vanilla ahah) for a story involving a gangster...? Eh *shrug*  
> In any case, thank you for staying with these characters, and for all the feedback (comments, kudos, bookmarks) so far! :D

Inho was outside, surrounded by the peaceful ambience of distant city traffic and cricket song and the occasional breeze rustling the leaves of his modest rooftop garden. The warm light from the lantern above the door offset the disappearing twilight as he lay back on the low, multi-purpose wooden table, his head pillowed on a folded sitting cushion. Soonyi dozed on the floor near him.

He was comfortably immersed in a wuxia novel when the tranquility was broken by an unfamiliar purring of engines and the crackle of wheels on the street just below his apartment. Curiosity piqued, Inho put down his book and sat up. Usually during this time on Fridays, no one in the neighborhood hauled a car that didn't rumble and clank and cause a general racket. Most of the residents were out working still, or already hitting the streets drinking and making merry. Soonyi snuffled and trailed alongside Inho as he took the couple strides over to the edge of the rooftop.

Hyechul waved when Inho looked over the barrier. The hulking man looked unusually casual, with his tie loose and suit jacket unbuttoned. Inho grinned and waved back before jogging down the steps to properly greet his hyung-nim.

"Mr. Choi." Hyechul tossed over a key the moment Inho eased the creaking front gate closed. "A gift, from the Director."

Inho snatched the key from the air and raised an eyebrow at Hyechul, then looked to the sleek back car tucked against the curb. Upon closer inspection, the car was a more expensive brand than Hyechul's, a new model, but still one of those nondescript luxury cars that mobsters and business executives ubiquitously seemed to prefer. It looked out of place, surrounded by all the old brick-and-concrete low-rise buildings in this neighborhood and alone except for the three other cars in the vicinity. Inho's place didn't have a garage; he might have to find someplace better than the street to house the fancy thing.

"It's barely past eight..." Inho commented, looking quizzically at Hyechul.

"He's looking over the clubs with Minshik and the others."

Inho nodded absently, fiddling with the key in his hand. He shouldn't expect Sangjun to be exempt from whatever duties _that_ part of his life entailed. It was Friday evening and the full swing of weekend nightlife was starting up. Many features of the entertainment sector—prostitution, alcohol, drugs, gambling, most of the karaoke bars and nightclubs—were standard mob-controlled businesses.

"And you'd rather not be party to Director Lee's more unofficial activities?"

Hyechul grinned. "I'm too old to go club-hopping anyway."

"I suppose I won't be seeing him today then." Contrary to Sangjun's parting words last night, Inho wasn't to start work until his transportation issue was settled, so he'd treated the whole day like a vacation. He smiled as he looked at Hyechul. "Would you like to come up for a bit?"

"You have anything to eat?"

"Just your luck. My specialty dish is still sitting hot on the stove."

"I was kidding, Mr. Choi," Hyechul said lightly, even as he followed Inho up the stairs. 

"Please, hyung-nim. It's been a while since I've had a guest who might appreciate my food."

Soonyi growled halfheartedly at Hyechul, who didn't make an effort to approach her, but with a soft command from Inho, she calmed down and went back to dozing. Inho went inside and prepared the meal for Hyechul: a bowl each of steaming rice and bean sprout soup, and half the warm pan of leftover stir-fried spicy pork and octopus. Then he returned to his book, sitting against the frame of his open front door.

After demolishing the very simple dinner, Hyechul spoke up wonderingly. "Your cooking is almost as good as my wife's."

"Not bad, huh?" Inho looked up from his reading. "Sorry about the lack of banchan, hyung-nim, it's not easy for a bachelor to survive alone."

"I'd say you're doing quite well," Hyechul said.

Standing up to collect the dirty dishes, Inho absently muttered, "I should just go and get married already."

"You _would_ make a good househusband," Hyechul responded in jest, making Inho laugh softly as he deposited the dishes in the sink. "Give it time, Mr. Choi, you're still young. You have to find the right woman. Marriage isn't something people should go into blindly."

"Mm, I suppose it's really not responsible for a man of my current station to marry a woman I can't comfortably support."

Pulling over a sitting cushion, Inho settled on the floor across the table from Hyechul and poured himself a glass of soju. They eased into a meandering conversation about family, the upcoming Olympics in Seoul, work, back to family...relatively safe topics.

It was easy to talk with Hyechul, when the stoic mask came off to reveal a man who very dearly loved his wife and children. He even took out wallet-sized photos of his wife and their son and daughter, both in primary school, to show Inho. The daughter was going into middle school next year, and _that_ was kind of surprising (although it shouldn't be, because Hyechul did look his age). "Good thing they both take after the missus," Inho teased; they were adorable kids. Inho slid the photo back over to Hyechul as the older man grunted. He respectfully emptied the last drops of soju into Hyechul's shot glass, mind wandering.

Marriage was something everyone did. By now, if he'd stayed closer to home and left matters to his parents, he would probably be settled in a (mostly arranged) marriage already, even have a kid or two. And, of course, he wouldn't be stuck in the strange predicament he was in right now.

He shook off the oddly heavy feeling and murmured, "I haven't driven in a while..." 

Inho had leased a car during his stay up-country, but it was different once he'd come back home. The Busan Metro had opened a few months before his return, and with those brand new subway lines in addition to the buses, he'd found no pressing need for personal transportation. Now that he suddenly found himself with a new car, however, he might as well start getting used to it as soon as possible.

"I'd ask if you wanted to go out for a round of actual drinks, but it seems like you'd rather be with your family."

"More like you'd prefer getting an old man out of your hair," Hyechul remarked, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. "But you're right, I do want to get going."

Inho had only occasionally driven in the past two years, but the muscle memory kicked in easily when he turned the ignition on. He'd almost forgotten the smell of leather and new car; it felt somewhat exhilarating. He dropped off Hyechul at the office where his car was parked and then decided to extend his test drive. 

It was a good time to stop by one of his favorite haunts, a quaint hole-in-the-wall bar run by an old classmate. Slowly drinking his beer, Inho spent the first few minutes there casually scoping the place but, after halfheartedly catching the gazes of a couple of interested women, he soon gave up. He didn't want to (nor did he think he could) start something, not with the shadow of his, ah... _affair_ , nagging at him. It was a tricky process anyway. Depended quite a bit on serendipity. Inho turned away from the visual distractions, to just enjoy the music and the occasional conversation offered by his bartender friend. 

When he finished his single drink, he left to wander around the block, occasionally being jostled by throngs of rowdy bar-hoppers, until the warm buzz wore off. He took his time getting back home, stopping by the neighborhood manhwabang to browse and borrow a couple titles, walking over to the convenience store across the street to pick up some soju to restock his fridge.

Despite the surrealism of the last several days, Inho's mini-vacation marked a stable, peaceful beginning to the weekend.

* * *

Inho's fingertips had just settled on the handle of the rear passenger door when he felt the sudden pull at the collar of his shirt. He grunted when his back slammed into a thick support pillar, his head tugged down by a rough hand. A whiff of cigarette smoke and Sangjun's lips were assaulting Inho's.

The kiss was hungry, sloppy and too earnest to be skillful. Inho, parting his lips obligingly, let Sangjun go on that way for a bit.

Inho had arrived at the building for his shift a quarter to 3, checking in with security before taking over for Hyechul and reviewing Sangjun's agenda for the remainder of the day with Ms. Park. When he'd strolled into the director's office (impertinently, he knew, without even a proper greeting beforehand, but he hadn't felt like deferring to 'Director Lee' at all) to brusquely remind Sangjun about his upcoming meeting, the immediate breathless tension had been palpable. 

The ensuing wordlessness between them had been heavy as Sangjun wrapped up his work. Inho intended to be at least half-serious about his job, and the less words exchanged, the simpler it would be to maintain the persona of the solemn, blank-faced 'bodyguard'. It wasn't as though they had much to talk about, and Sangjun hadn't seemed interested in initiating conversation either. 

But lack of words didn't necessarily mean silence; there had been so much pent-up energy radiating from the man. It had been difficult not to squirm under that intent gaze, settled like taffy down the length of Inho's spine, as he'd led them down to the garage.

Sangjun was too loose, too undisciplined and incautious, with his aberrant desires. Inho didn't think too highly of it.

Still, he kissed back, unhurriedly but firmly. He kept his wits about him ( _one_ of them had to stay rational) as his hands, resting against Sangjun's ribs, shifted them both until they were better hidden behind the concrete pillar in the dark. There weren't many newly installed surveillance cameras around, but the garage wasn't really a private one, and he didn't want anyone stumbling across this scandalous scene.

Fingers curled, and the pressure of skin against the short hairs at his nape, the subtle vulnerability of the trembling in those fingers, sent a shiver down Inho's back. But he remained calm and measured in his response, which soon led Sangjun to simmer down.

"Missed me, did you?" Inho quipped when Sangjun came up for air. The man was acting so needy, it would have been almost endearing—if Inho didn't know any better.

After he'd gotten the phone call from Hyechul to take Saturday and Sunday off, Inho had taken full advantage of his free weekend, hanging out with his friends, relaxing. He'd easily put aside thoughts of Sangjun after deeming it a matter of course that the mobster, in between whatever actual work he had, would spend the weekend drinking, smoking it up, and screwing around with prostitutes. To Inho's amused disappointment, apparently not enough fucking had occurred, if this eager greeting was anything to go by.

But he wasn't going to indulge Sangjun any further. That wasn't his job right now. He pulled away to open the car door for Sangjun, turning to face him with a clipped, minimal bow of his head.

Gaze steady on Inho's, Sangjun moved, ostensibly to get in the car, and Inho felt a small relief at the cessation of questionable activity. He was stepping back to close the door when Sangjun grabbed a handful of his tie and shirt. 

Before he could even react properly, Inho was manhandled into the car, his elbow knocking into the back of the driver's seat. He immediately grabbed Sangjun's hair, not feeling threatened enough to do anything more with his free hand (and there were so many things he could do, _should_ probably do), while his other arm was held above his head at his wrist by a strong grip. His legs floundered gracelessly as he instinctively tried to leverage Sangjun off him. 

"Oi, kkangpae-sekki," growled Inho, pausing in his kicking when Sangjun didn't budge, didn't even flinch when Inho pulled roughly at his hair.

The man seemed to be spurred on by the reserves of energy that hadn't been depleted over the weekend. He stubbornly kept Inho pressed into the leather as he ungently stroked Inho through the fabric.

Inho's hip twitched involuntarily into the touch, and he silently cursed the slip in his control. "What do you think you're doing?"

Sangjun shot him a level glance, as if Inho were a fucking idiot for asking such a stupid question.

Inho glared back. It was too cramped in the backseat for two fully grown men to consider a quick romp, and really, Inho's sense of propriety had never put him in the mood for awkward attempts at car sex in the middle of the afternoon in a semi-public place. There were plenty of other times and places for what Sangjun wanted.

"Stop," Inho ground out. He didn't want to risk kicking at the man, not with that hand so close to an unfortunately vulnerable part of his body.

Apparently Sangjun had gone deaf, and Inho watched for an annoyed moment as quick fingers successfully unbuckled Inho's belt and landed on the top button. 

"Get off me," he tried again calmly, giving Sangjun another chance.

But Sangjun ignored the warning, merely tugging down the zipper of Inho's pants.

And that was enough of the man's lapse in judgment. Inho let go of Sangjun's hair to grab his wrist and yank his arm up. "I said stop."

That finally got Sangjun's attention. "And why would I do that?" he asked, indifferent.

Inho's upper lip curled. "'Why'? It's only proper manners. Even a thug like you should have learned such basic etiquette in primary school."

Sangjun raised his brows incredulously, scoffing in Inho's face. Both of their arms were trembling from strain, Inho holding onto Sangjun's wrist as the mobster tried to wrench it free. 

"I'm not one of your little whores to fuck wherever, whenever."

"But you are," Sangjun responded mockingly.

"Really," drawled Inho, digging his nails into skin. The mobster looked like he wanted to say a few choice words, but Inho went on, "Do try to control your base impulses, Director."

"Don't test me, Choi Inho."

"Or what," Inho said, blandly, putting on his best arrogant expression. "What will you do? You have me where you want me. I agreed to work for you so you would stay away from my friends and family. But stupid me, to trust the words of low-class filth." 

Inho watched, nerves thrumming from the tightening pressure around his wrist, as those sharp eyes blazed. How much farther could he push it?

He held Sangjun's gaze and bulldozed through with his deliberate provocation, the condescension flowing too easily off his tongue. "You thugs are all the same, aren't you? You can't even be called men, with your empty promises and deceitful nature—"

"You insolent fuck..." Sangjun ground out, low and dangerous.

Inho smirked derisively, wrist bones creaking under his own hand. "You were fully aware that was part of the package." So maybe the man only humored insolence in the bedroom—wasn't Inho's problem. He understood having expectations of an actual employee, but he didn't think he properly qualified as one.

"Your self-righteousness knows no bounds, does it." Sangjun bared his teeth, an angry slash of a smile. "You really must stop thinking so highly of yourself, Inho."

"I'll stop when you do the same for yourself."

"You are my subordinate—"

"Only in the most technical terms," Inho interjected flippantly.

"—no better than a whore."

Inho kept his expression fixed. This whole exchange was so inane, but the momentum had kept him helplessly engaged.

"I should permanently wipe that smirk off your face," Sangjun muttered, which only made Inho feel even more smug. 

"What do you think you can do to me?" Inho scoffed.

The mobster's suddenly contemplative expression wasn't encouraging.

Right...probably not a wise question. Inho didn't _actually_ want to find out. He was just...rather distracted, by the wild tension between them. 

But this was enough fooling around. 

Inho sighed, schooling his expression into complete seriousness as he placidly met Sangjun's eyes. "Director Lee. Let us at least _attempt_ to maintain a professional relationship during the day. Save the indecency for the night, in private, where it belongs."

"You're in no position to try imposing restrictions on my behavior."

"But you really do need to practice self-restraint."

Observing some modicum of social propriety was only prudent. Inho wasn't opposed, per se, to homosexual acts—sex was sex (even though he had barely any choice in this particular case)—but that kind of behavior just wasn't anything to so blatantly show off in public. He was still wary about the general stigma surrounding men like Sangjun. People didn't talk about it, as though ignoring it made it nonexistent, and when the topic ever came up...well, some of the loudly expressed opinions were alarming. 

How Sangjun could even maintain his reputation, in light of his deviant lifestyle, Inho didn't fully understand. But he supposed that the people close to him, who knew about Sangjun's proclivities, didn't spread around that information. Probably. Hyechul barely even acknowledged it, though he didn't seem to overtly disapprove, and Minshik, despite ambivalent first impressions, didn't seem the type of man to gossip freely about something so serious. Sangjun presented himself in all the correct ways; there was nothing feminine or flamboyant about his demeanor.

In fact, the mobster's actual problem was a general one shared by men across the board: the inability to restrain his overly red-blooded sense of entitlement. Inho couldn't help but respond in kind. But for now, he wanted to diffuse the remaining tension.

He let go of Sangjun's wrist (his hand was aching from applying so much pressure), asking seriously, "Can you afford the risk?"

Inho didn't care what consequences the mobster might have to face when things went to hell, but he didn't want to be caught in the same trap.

A strange expression clouded Sangjun's face as he stared intently at Inho. Seconds wavered between their gazes, until Sangjun pressed his lips tightly together, glancing away as he pushed himself off and backed away. 

Sitting up, Inho straightened his clothing and scooted out of the backseat. Sangjun stepped aside for him with a low grumble, "Why must you be so rational when it suits your needs?"

Inho smirked blandly as he stood behind the open back door, and idly motioned his head toward the car. "Come on, the meeting's in—" he looked at his watch "—15 minutes. You're going to be late."

Sangjun snorted softly and slid inside, expression cold and posture stiff. Inho rolled his eyes at the petulant display. 

With a perfunctory sweep of the thankfully still-empty garage, Inho ducked into the car, grasped Sangjun's chin, and placed a quick, closemouthed kiss on his mouth. "Don't make me truly hate you," he murmured before he backed away and shut the door. 

And Inho meant what he said. He had accepted his lot, so it was pointless to actively hate Sangjun. It was easy to _dislike_ the mobster on principle, but for now...he could put off further negative judgment.

* * *

Inho had barely taken off his suit jacket when he was pushed against the wall, his breath hitching as an eager hand palmed at him through the fabric. Warmth began to course through him; any healthy man would be affected by that kind of stimulation. He readily tilted his head to the side as Sangjun nuzzled his neck, brushed his lips against the skin peeking over the collar. 

He'd anticipated this. Sangjun had been too preoccupied to try anything else after that little stunt in the garage, but Inho had felt the steady buildup in tension and weariness as they went through the rest of Monday evening after the meeting (to which they'd arrived five minutes late). Some more office work, a visit to Busan Port and its customhouse where he met up with two other business partners to oversee a shipment, and then a social dinner—and more than a few drinks for Sangjun—with the acquaintances at a crowded, smoke-filled bar. 

It was Sangjun's prerogative of course, and although Inho normally wouldn't give a shit about that fact, tonight he felt that the man deserved some measure of quiet acquiescence from him. And...he supposed he should be relieved that his own libido still worked properly.

Inho ducked his head to cut short the meandering, insubstantial kisses against his neck, reaching up to cradle a clean-shaven jaw. He pressed his mouth against Sangjun's.

A flick of tongue against the seams of Sangjun's lips had the man opening up obediently to the distractingly involved kiss. It hindered his progress in getting Inho's pants off, but he still idly fumbled away while his other hand tugged at Inho's tie. Sangjun was still coming down from the buzz of the couple bottles of sake he'd imbibed, but his movements were steady. 

Inho wasn't sure what he was thinking when he gripped Sangjun's forearm, but he kept his hand there, feeling every twitch of muscle and bone under his palm, the heat of skin under the fabric, as the man continued to stroke Inho's growing erection. 

"Don't fight me," sighed Sangjun, almost like a plea, when Inho eased off for a moment to catch his breath.

Inho opened his mouth to respond that obviously, he wasn't fighting, when the phone rang.

Both of them flinched at the noise. Inho felt tension coiling in Sangjun's body as the man frowned at the telephone, sitting innocuously next to the television set on the polished wooden rack. It rang loudly again, completely shattering the charged atmosphere and compelling the mobster to finally move. 

Though displeasure was written all over his face, Sangjun's voice was level when he answered the phone. "Hello?"

Inho watched Sangjun during the ensuing pause, closely enough to catch the marked shift in his demeanor. No more signs of annoyance, a half-smile settled on his mouth and reflected in the warmth thawing his voice. "Good evening, Hwejang-nim."

Chairman? The mobster—no, the 'managing director'...had a direct line of contact to such a man? And to exchange calls at this late hour... Inho willed his body to calm down; Sangjun laughed, short and soft. "It really has been too long." Appeasing. "Yes. Yes, of course I will, Hwejang-nim." 

Setting the phone back on the receiver and squaring his shoulders, Sangjun smoothed down his vest and shirt as he turned towards Inho again. His expression, with that tiny static smile, wasn't easily decipherable. 

"I need you to drive me somewhere," he said, looking almost apologetic when his eyes flickered down to Inho's groin.

Inho silently shrugged it off. He knew he had better control over his body compared to Sangjun. "Whatever the Director needs," he murmured as he turned back to the entryway.

Sangjun gave concise directions, which Inho easily filed away in his memory, and remained quiet, eyes closed, through the ride. Inho didn't ask any questions. When they left behind the wide urban streets and reached the affluent hills, Sangjun guided the last several turns. 

Inho arrived without difficulty, slowing down to make the sharp turn into an open driveway. The chairman's place was a beautiful two-story building that sat behind a gated wall at the end of a sizable lawn and cobbled driveway. An aesthetic fusion of traditional Korean and modern Western architecture, from what Inho could see; one second-story window was lit from within. Immersed in lush greenery, with lights at regular intervals providing soft illumination over the stone and grass scattered with recently fallen flower petals, the house exuded wealth and peace.

When Inho parked the car, closer to the street than to the gate, Sangjun said, "My business shouldn't take more than a couple hours," and promptly opened the door for himself.

Inho grunted in acknowledgement, and then he was alone. He rolled down the window, turned off the car engine, and watched Sangjun disappear behind the gate.

With the crisp spring air and the rustling of trees blanketing him in tranquility, Inho slowed and deepened his breathing.

He was scheduled to work Thursday through Monday, from mid-afternoon into the night, and it was a matter of course that he would provide unorthodox services, as needed, during these mostly nocturnal hours. First shift, and already quite a change of pace from his previous six-day workweek at Taegyu's store.

Making deliveries and orders, checking inventory, negotiating and networking, double-checking accounts, acting as an occasional bouncer (and carpenter and mechanic, for simple tasks)... His old job had kept him busy each day, from 8am to 6pm. Lots to do, if a bit repetitive. Stable.

Inho wouldn't fault this new job for being so much calmer, but observing someone else's hectic day made him feel rather useless and guiltily idle. He entertained the thought of checking in on Taegyu...maybe he could help with hiring, or training. Perhaps he should find a second part-time job, learn something new, or should he start looking at long-term career options? In the short run, he could spend more time with Soonyi. Cooking? Expanding his garden?

He'd been thinking about all of this over the weekend, but the reality of the so-far modest demands of his new situation was making him seriously consider.

For now, though, he would stop thinking...

Inho pulled back from his meditation at the soft, crackling trudge approaching him.

He glanced at his watch—just a few minutes shy of two hours—and briskly got out of the car to open the back door. He tracked Sangjun's uneven, deliberate steps, noted the hair hanging loose from his neat style, and refrained from comment. The smell of alcohol wafted over to Inho as Sangjun practically fell into the backseat.

Starting the car, Inho commented lightly, "Your business with the chairman has been fruitful, I take it?"

"I don't know how the man's liver is still functioning," Sangjun muttered tiredly in response and took out his pack of cigarettes. The ride was quiet, with Sangjun chain-smoking as he looked out the window, and then dozing the rest of the way.

When they arrived, Sangjun headed straight for his room. Inho trailed after him, picking up the articles of clothing that had carelessly been shed along the way.

"You're acting like a damn fussy wife," Sangjun said over his shoulder and then gracelessly flopped face-down on his bed. 

Hanging the jacket, vest, and belt on the coat rack, Inho snorted. "And I'm sure you like that." He tossed the socks into the hamper in the bathroom and returned for Sangjun's watch and wallet. 

Sangjun was lying on his side, half curled-up, watching Inho with hooded eyes.

Inho could probably skip out on the accessories...but be reached over anyway. He picked the wallet out of the side pocket and tossed it onto the nightstand. 

When he took off the watch, Sangjun suddenly grabbed his hand and held it (rather awkwardly) for a few seconds, absently rubbing the freshly healed skin of the knuckles, and then dropped it just as suddenly.

Sangjun rolled away from Inho, mumbling a final-sounding "Good night, Mr. Choi."

Inho merely grunted as he finished his fussing. He placed the watch on the nightstand and switched off all the lights behind him as he left.

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- banchan (반찬) = small "side dishes" served along with cooked rice (and, if there is one, the main dish)  
> \- manhwabang (만화방) = "comic book room" where patrons can read and/or borrow comics (and other types of books) from, for a small fee  
> \- soju (소주) = popular Korean alcoholic beverage  
> \- kkangpae (깡패) = "thug/gangster" | kkangpae-sekki (깡패새끼) = 'kkangpae' is "gangster", 'sekki' means "bastard/son of a bitch"


	6. Inho puts up with indiscretions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho puts up with Sangjun's indiscretions.

Inho spent much of Tuesday and Wednesday at Taegyu's store. He'd dropped by in the morning, during his daily run with Soonyi, to see how his friend was doing. As it turned out, Taegyu was still trying to find someone who could actually hold down Inho's position, so Inho offered to help with the inventory and with interviews. Taegyu was still curious about Inho's new association with a mobster, but Inho lightly evaded some of the more probing questions.

He also decided to spend a little more time at the modest gyms he frequented. One was a regular gym specializing in kick-boxing that regularly held small tournaments; the other was a martial arts training hall operated by one of his friends. They were civilized, controlled environments, but they nonetheless helped Inho stay sharp, giving him opportunities to spar with people who generally knew proper technique.

Work at Taegyu's, training, entertaining Soonyi, dinner with friends, chores, reading...and Thursday arrived quickly. Inho was back to 'work'.

Aside from escorting Sangjun to one meeting, it looked to be a ridiculously uneventful shift; Inho almost welcomed the next segment of his job. Since nothing in his list of duties actually required him to stand still for hours outside the Director's door, and Sangjun was swamped with paperwork and calls for the rest of the day, Inho decided to explore the office building. He eventually stumbled on an unsecured roof access door, and so took the opportunity to spend a good amount of time enjoying the view and the comfortably brisk wind that blustered around him.

Inho strolled back into the reception area of the managing director's office at six o'clock, feeling refreshed and content. He was just in time to catch Ms. Park, Director Lee's stern-faced but pretty secretary, gathering her belongings from behind her desk. She looked up, and he flashed her a smile.

"You're finally back, Mr. Choi," she greeted dryly as she adjusted her glasses, her vibrant red lips quirking up at the corners. "Please take good care of our Director."

"Of course. Good night, Ms. Park."

She nodded crisply and walked past Inho, her sharp heels tapping dully on the carpet.

Inho's eyes strayed, to appreciate the outline of sleek black pencil skirt and the sway of hips, until she disappeared out the heavy polished-wood door and into the hallway. The door clicked shut just as Sangjun's voice floated over from behind Inho.

"It's impolite to stare at a woman like that."

Inho wiped his expression down to blandness. He flicked his gaze sideways toward the managing director's office, where Sangjun was leaning against the doorjamb, and drawled, "You're far from qualified to lecture me on politeness."

Sangjun pushed away from the door, his gaze intent as he headed for Inho. When he was just two paces away, Inho lightly stepped away but let himself be backed into the black leather couch lining one wall of the reception area. He didn't resist as Sangjun grabbed his tie and pushed him down with his other hand, followed the movement with his own body.

Leather creaked as Sangjun shifted atop Inho's thighs, and Inho had a flash of pleasant memory. Though Sangjun was taller than the women Inho had slept with, he was still shorter by inches than Inho, and they could still comfortably angle their heads for the kiss that Sangjun sought.

A solid, sensual weight on his lap, heady warmth, and his partner too-willing...it would be quite near perfect, Inho mused, if said partner wasn't a blackmailing bastard.

But no point in dwelling on that—not when he could try incapacitating the kkangpae with his kisses. It was entertaining to think how tame the man could become, and predictably enough, it took only moments before Sangjun was feeding soft groans into Inho's mouth and clumsily plucking at the buttons of his shirt. Inho held Sangjun's waist and rubbed his other palm up a hard thigh.

It wasn't easy to keep his own libido at bay in the face of such enthusiasm, but Inho would try. He grabbed Sangjun's ass, tugged down as he rolled his hips up.

Sangjun cursed under his breath as he rode out the movement, and then rested his forehead against Inho's in a disturbingly intimate gesture. His eyes were closed and his palms hot against Inho's bared torso, but he managed a very reluctant, "We have business to attend to..." and then angled his head for another kiss.

Shifting his face away from the attempt, Inho quipped, "Very important business, yeah?" before his chin was caught in a strong grip.

A breathless few seconds, relentlessly slow grinding, and Sangjun came up for air again. "It can wait."

"Will Mr. Yu be there?" The steady friction was sending pleasant sparks through Inho despite himself. "It's very rude to make your elders wait." This was all surely a form of self-punishment, but Inho had discipline, he had his principles, and he _would_ adhere to those if it meant he could simultaneously frustrate the hell out of the mobster.

Sangjun sighed and grumbled, "It is," sluggishly moving as if to pull away.

Both relieved and somewhat regretful at the loss of contact, Inho murmured calmly, "Very _good_ , Director. Starting to learn, hm?"

The clink of a belt buckle. "Don't celebrate just yet, Mr. Choi. I'm finishing what you started."

"What _I_ started?" Inho scoffed. "You have no self-control."

" _You_ have too much pride," countered Sangjun as he stroked himself, his knuckles bumping against Inho's stomach, "over your own supposed control. Prudishness isn't a virtue."

"Respectability, not prudishness."

Inho kept his hands idle on Sangjun's thighs and his expression bland as he stared unwaveringly. And it paid off: a light flush was crawling up the mobster's face; the image of absolute confidence in those eyes shuddered, then broke, as he twitched his gaze away and down. Watching the play of expressions across Sangjun's face, that enticing blend of self-consciousness and pleasure, feeling the almost-painful grip on his shoulder and the palpable buildup toward release, Inho felt a dull twinge of satisfaction. If he had to give up some control over his life to this man, he would take these little moments where he knew he had the upper hand.

"You enjoy surrendering to your desires too much."

"One of life's simple joys," Sangjun breathed. "Live a little, Mr. Choi."

Inho reached up. "You," he started in a low murmur, tangling his fingers in gel-stiff hair and tugging, "are utterly helpless, aren't you?"

He pulled the head down to brush his lips over a pierced but unadorned earlobe; Sangjun gasped, a soft, desperate sound that (coming from any other person) would have made Inho completely drop his guard.

Inho continued in a bare whisper, "So damn weak, against yourself..." and licked a stripe across the soft skin behind the ear, "against me..."

He paused at a spot low enough to be covered by the collar of a fully-buttoned shirt, and then bit down. It earned him a low, helpless groan. Inho proceeded to to suck a new bruise above the fading mark from last week, only slightly distracted by a simmering arousal—from the unabashed, moaning pants against his ear, the tickling graze of knuckles against his abs, the strong hand kneading at the back of his head—that threatened to undermine him. He focused half his concentration on counting the seconds and the other half on the preciseness of his marking.

As Inho finished up, with a last press of his lips against the raw mark, hot stripes of semen splattered his stomach. He ignored the mess for awhile, smoothing his hand over the hair he'd tousled.

"Satisfied?" he muttered when Sangjun's breathing had slowed somewhat, and then shoved lightly.

The kkangpae's response was to tighten his arm around Inho's shoulder with a petulant little groan, and nudge his head against the crook of Inho's neck. It was not at all dignified or mature.

"Come on, Director," drawled Inho, watching the clock on the opposite wall tick along. "Time to go." He gave another, more insistent shove.

Finally, with a long sigh, Sangjun lazily rolled off Inho's lap to sit properly on the couch. Inho stood up to get the convenient box of tissues from Ms. Park's desk and wiped off the drying mess on his stomach. He turned back to see that Sangjun had made no move to fix himself. This was getting rather ridiculous.

"Hey." Inho nudged Sangjun's foot with his own. "This isn't your home," he said as he dropped the tissue box on Sangjun's lap. "Make yourself presentable, get up."

"Slow down, Mr. Choi," said Sangjun, lazily reaching for a tissue.

"You've had enough time to recover."

"Goddamn, you're a fucking killjoy." But Sangjun's tiny smile as he unhurriedly cleaned himself up belied that statement.

"Mhm, that's been established already," said Inho, equally flippant, as Sangjun zipped his slacks and stood up. Inho's attention was fixed on the bruise, still glaringly visible over the loosely buttoned collar, and when Sangjun strolled past Inho toward the exit without doing anything about it, Inho reached out to grab the man by the shoulder.

Sangjun smirked as Inho fastened the top button and fixed the knot of the tie. "Fussy."

"Making sure we're not advertising anything," Inho corrected impassively, giving the tie a final, tightening tug.

Then they finally left the modern office building. The quiet drive into the northern section of the entertainment district was short, even with evening traffic, and Inho parked in front of a nondescript six-story building wedged in between a jjimjilbang and an officetel. Old man Minshik was waiting down front, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he leaned against a car and talked to a grunt in the passenger seat. When he spotted the director's car, Minshik grinned widely and approached them.

"Good evening, Mr. Yu," greeted Inho when Minshik got in the car next to Sangjun.

"Mr. Choi!" Minshik eased the car door closed. "I missed your scruffy face!"

"It's barely been a week, so I can't say I return the sentiment."

"Kids these days, fucking rude as hell. Your little tiger's still a damn feral bastard, Director Lee." Sangjun huffed out soft laughter as Minshik nudged him with an elbow. "Better get started on taming the beast, eh?" He waggled his eyebrows at Inho through the rearview mirror.

Inho gave Minshik an unamused look, but the gangster settled down quickly enough when the front passenger door opened.

"Good evening, Hyung-nim," greeted a booming, energetic voice.

Inho turned his head to assess the newcomer taking the seat beside him while Sangjun brusquely made the introductions. "Baek Duhan, my deputy. Choi Inho, personal security."

Duhan was young and fit, with clean, striking features and an unapproachably intense expression. He held himself aggressively as he returned Inho's wordless assessment. Seconds ticked by as every line in his body, every flicker of his gaze, sized Inho up.

"Hn. Doesn't look like much," he finally commented, an insolent smirk lifting one corner of his mouth.

Inho didn't rise to the challenge, instead giving one last dismissive sweep before turning back to the wheel.

"Hyung-nim!" exclaimed Duhan, turning to look at Sangjun, "You managed to find someone even more shy than Mr. Kim."

Sangjun grunted, eyes closed as he tipped his head back against the headrest. "Behave, Duhan."

"Of course, Hyung-nim," he replied brightly, turning to face Inho with a wide, boyish smirk that didn't make him look any less severe. "We'll be seeing more of each other, so let's not be strangers, yeah?"

"Sure, Mr. Baek," Inho drawled, keeping his eyes on the road.

Tonight was all (unofficial) mob business, doubling as a test drive to familiarize Inho with the routes. Escorting a group of mobsters for routine, casual inspections of their shady operations...Inho had never before imagined himself in this position. He ignored most of what the other three men discussed, focusing instead on getting the directions correct and noting landmarks and restaurants he might try out later. He waited around idly while the mobsters checked in on the various clubs that Sangjun's subordinates directly managed.

By the time Sangjun's day was over, with Duhan and Minshik dropped off at their respective nightclubs, it was nearly midnight. Inho followed Sangjun up the elevator, all the way to the penthouse, and waited until Sangjun opened the door and took a step inside.

This was the moment Inho's job as personal assistant/security/driver ended. Afterwards was Sangjun's call, but Inho didn't feel up to indulging him anymore tonight.

Before he could turn to leave however, Sangjun grabbed his wrist. Slipping down to his palm, the grip wasn't strong enough to actually stop Inho, but he still paused. "It's late, Director," he murmured.

To Inho's vague surprise, Sangjun only brushed his thumb over the the knuckles of Inho's fingers and then dropped the hand without protest.

Inho stepped away with a curt bow of his head. "Rest well."

"Good night, Mr. Choi."

* * *

The next day was business as usual, and Sangjun was surprisingly well-behaved during Inho's entire shift. There were no real attempts to lay a hand on Inho—at least not until the evening, when Sangjun was getting ready for the late dinner meeting slotted into his schedule. After Ms. Park left for the day, Sangjun didn't immediately emerge from his office, so Inho went to check.

Sangjun was standing in front of the wall mirror, refastening his tie. He hadn't changed his clothing, but apparently he'd been less fastidious with his attire while he worked.

"Take the boxes on my desk," he said when he caught Inho's eyes.

Inho nodded and walked over to the crowded, paper-strewn desk to retrieve the boxes. They were heavy for their small size, and the lacquered wood of each was inlaid with mother-of-pearl images of cranes and cloud-covered trees and mountains. Gifts, he realized belatedly.

"I hope you're not too hungry. You're going to have to sit tight and look pretty during the meeting."

Inho grunted, putting the boxes down to search the room for something he could use to cover and carry them. They were a bit too conspicuous, and he wasn't sure he had any wrapping cloths in the car...

Before he could go check Ms. Park's desk, Sangjun slung a twist of cloth around Inho's neck and pulled him into a biting kiss. _Right, so that settles the issue._ As he indulged Sangjun, Inho kept his hands anchored on the man's hips to keep their bodies apart. There was no time for this to escalate in the office.

Sangjun was aware of it too. After a minute, he stepped back resolutely and headed out. Inho unwound what turned out to be two wrapping cloths, packed the gifts separately, and followed.

Inho drove up a clean road, well-lit and gleaming under abundant street lamps rather than flashing neon signs, and parked the car in a stone-paved courtyard. A sign at the side of the inner gates read, in sharp, flowing calligraphy, _Mi Hyang_. A stately woman, lightly adorned with makeup and dressed in hanbok, was standing by to escort guests into the establishment.

This was...a gisaeng house?

Inho felt out of his element, though he didn't think he should feel this way. Not when he'd grown up in relative wealth, not when he'd kept up with the quickly changing times. But this sort of place—this ridiculously lavish venue, modern-looking in its sleekness despite the wholly traditional architecture—was something he had never really explored or even known about. The economy was growing so quickly around him, and this contemporary gisaeng house, in the middle of Busan, was a jarring sight. It wasn't a relic from the industrializing Busan he remembered from childhood, but a luxurious throwback to history in an increasingly prosperous city for the rich men who could afford it.

It was a feast for Inho's eyes as he walked through dim hallways, his footsteps thumping hollow on the polished wooden floors. Floating in and out of doors and hallways, colorfully dressed and pleasingly dolled-up, these women, true to their historical reputation, reminded Inho of delicate flowers.

Traditional gisaeng did not exist in current society, but these young women were nonetheless talented entertainers. Inho could hear streams of lovely music from different rooms, men's drunken chatter and women's tinkling laughter behind wood-and-paper sliding doors, as they were led deep into the house until they arrived at a relatively private area.

It was a cozy little room, softly-lit, furnished with traditional polished-wood cabinets topped with decorative lanterns and plants, a beautiful hand-painted screen at the back, a small pile of sitting cushions resting atop a neatly folded quilt. It looked like an imitation of a gisaeng's quarters. There was a low dining table already prepared with appetizers and liquor.

Inho sat quietly off to the corner, near the doors, while Sangjun hung his suit jacket on the coat rack and settled himself on a sitting cushion at the table. Shortly after, another beautiful gisaeng escorted two men—customs officers, Sangjun had mentioned—into the room and slid the door closed behind her.

A flicker of surprise ran through Inho. He recognized one of them as an acquaintance of Inseong (Inho's eldest brother by 15 years) that he'd seen a couple times back when he was in middle school. He wasn't familiar enough with the man to know his name however, so Inho wasn't too worried he would be recognized. It looked like the Busan native had made his way up in life and was apparently a sufficiently high-ranking official for Sangjun to bribe. The gisaeng's eyes shone brightly as she looked at Inho before sitting with the older men.

Inho's attention strayed from the growing discussion as the men unhurriedly conducted their business. The only thing he had to do was act as "Director Lee's aide" and hand over the pretty little boxes at some point. He was otherwise uninterested in whatever could make Sangjun the businessman sound so controlled and charming. Expertly reigning back any blunt tendencies, Managing Director Lee applied just the right amount of deference and unctuousness to match the demeanor of the public officials. It was rather unsettling to watch him so easily play the game.

Later, a boisterous insistence that Mirim, the gisaeng, play something caught Inho's attention. Mirim gave Inho a pretty smile—which he gladly returned—that dimpled her cheeks as she took the kayageum leaning against the wall near Inho. The ample, bright red skirts of her hanbok rustled gently as she glided past again and gracefully sat down with her back toward the doors. She had a traditionally beautiful face, with soft, kind-looking eyes slightly downturned at the the corners, delicately arched eyebrows, a cute little nose, and a small but plump mouth that was made for smiling. As she played a soft, lilting tune, she occasionally looked up coyly at Inho.

Inho kept half his attention on the discussion, and he was prepared when Sangjun segued into the gift-giving portion of the meeting. He was stoic as he handed over the gifts, the customs officers pretty much ignored him, and then his task was done. He backed away, into his corner, and resumed admiring Mirim and her music.

It took an hour and a half for the director to secure his agreement. Inho followed silently as Sangjun stood up with the customs officers and escorted them to the gates. The older men were smiling and buzzed, gifts tucked securely under their arms, as they said their effusive farewells. When they left, Sangjun went back into the house.

"Mirim," Sangjun called to the gisaeng. She was waiting by the door to the room. "Please bring another setting for Inho."

"I'm fine," said Inho, even as his stomach gave a dissenting growl, while Mirim nodded and excused herself. Sangjun was far from obligated to feed Inho on the job, especially not in such an extravagant place.

Back inside the room, the table strewn with empty dishes and bottles of liquor had been cleared away. Sangjun sat down heavily and leaned back on his palms with a sigh, tipping his head back. Inho removed his own stuffy suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves—he could afford to be casual now—and went back to his little corner.

The silence that stretched the gap between them wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but Inho was still glad for the disruption when Mirim came back carrying a smaller dining table laden with food. She glided past Inho to set the table toward the back of the room near Sangjun.

"Come here," said Sangjun, pulling a sitting cushion next to him and accepting the cup of makgeolli that Mirim ladled for him.

Inho raised an eyebrow at him, then cut a glance at Mirim, who playfully met his eyes as she poured another cup for Inho. As Mirim passed by to play her instrument again, Inho sighed and then went over to sit down cross-legged next to Sangjun. He couldn't let food go to waste. Doing his best to ignore Sangjun's blatant staring, Inho stiffly dug into the hearty meal.

When Inho was about halfway through the rice and side dishes, Sangjun murmured, "You're so tense," and sipped his drink. There was a looseness to his words; he'd been drinking for a while. "Relax."

Inho scoffed. "Then stop staring," he said and drained the last of his makgeolli. As edgy as he had felt (who wouldn't, with having someone watch you eat?), it hadn't been enough to dampen his appetite, especially for food this appetizing. He reached for the makgeolli jar, but Sangjun took the ladle first, mixing what remained of the milky drink before pouring some into Inho's cup.

It was momentarily awkward for Inho, whose sense of propriety yelled at him to return the gesture, as he hesitated and stupidly looked at the drink held out to him.

"I'm not going to bite," Sangjun teased, laughing low in his throat.

Inho took the cup.

"You're the one who likes doing that."

Inho had refrained from meeting Sangjun's eyes while he was eating, but this time he gave the kkangpae an icy look, roughly setting down the cup. Liquid sloshed over the rim onto his hand. "Where do you think you are right now?" he growled softly. Thankfully, Mirim's attention was still on her instrument.

Sangjun's buzzed expression was heated as he ignored Inho's question to take his hand. "Let's not waste good alcohol," he murmured and then, as if it was such a natural thing to do, licked the spilled makgeolli off Inho's fingers.

Inho must have been shocked, completely distracted, something—because in the moment where he looked at Mirim again to check the action had gone unnoticed, Sangjun had shoved the table away, and Inho found himself on his back with Sangjun's weight on him, his wrist caught in a bruising grip near his head.

It was a familiar position; Inho regained enough sense to fist a hand in Sangjun's shirt, try to buck him off.

They grappled for a second until Sangjun knocked Inho's head back to the floor with a hand at his throat and said, "Mirim, lock the doors."

 _What?_ Inho felt poleaxed. The fight in him was drained, even as Sangjun let go of his neck.

Mirim had been steadily playing the kayageum, as if she wasn't witnessing a completely indecent scene. Her head was dipped, but from his position on the floor, Inho could see the sassy tilt of her smile.

Inho's grip on Sangjun's collar shook with indecision. Inho wanted to make Sangjun to fight for it, at least a little—this was within the bounds of his job—but he wasn't sure...—it was one thing to undermine Sangjun's authority in private, even around the man's innermost circle, but in front of others, in front of a _lady_...

"Of course, Mr. Lee," tinkled Mirim's musical voice. "The room is reserved for another hour, so please..." She stood up and curtsied. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Mirim, wait. Would it be too much to ask for you to stay?" Sangjun asked, his free hand trailing down, tugging Inho's tie loose, easily undoing the buttons of his shirt. His eyes were fixed on Inho's mouth. "You know I love to hear your beautiful playing."

Inho was tense with mortification. First the handcuffs, and now this? He didn't know Sangjun had a taste for exhibitionism. Not to mention the _recklessness_ of doing this kind of thing here, even with the flimsy doors locked. And, so much for the secrecy that Sangjun mentioned when he'd given his ultimatum. How many people was it now, who were explicitly aware of this facet of their relationship?

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Lee," said Mirim, sinking back down on the floor after securing the room. Her eyes were lowered, her dark lipstick-red lips pursed in a mischievous little grin that deepened her dimples. She was just too pretty.

Inho was unable to resent Mirim for encouraging Sangjun's impropriety, but he leveled a glower at Sangjun. "This is wildly inappropriate," he managed faintly.

Mirim laughed softly at that and, sharing her gentle amusement, Sangjun grinned.

Inho couldn't believe the two were conspiring together. He couldn't believe Mirim approved of this. She actually seemed rather _pleased_ , if the hint of a flush underneath her makeup meant anything.

"Inho is a delight, isn't he?" Sangjun said, grinding his half-hard erection against Inho. "But I'm afraid I can't share him with you."

"Oh, Mr. Lee, I wouldn't dare presume," Mirim murmured sweetly, still smiling as she began to play, and Inho was taken aback again; it shouldn't be possible to produce such a provocative tune with an instrument as traditional as the kayageum.

...There was nothing for it; Inho was outnumbered by deviants.

He gave in, loosening his grip on the wrinkled collar as Sangjun proceeded to get both their trousers undone. The cozy room smelled pleasant, and the sensation of hard floor under his shoulders and Mirim's presence, despite the strangeness of it, failed to diminish the physical pleasure he felt as Sangjun rubbed against him.

Still. Inho yanked down Sangjun's head and muttered into his ear, "I'd rather be doing this with Ms. Mirim, you know that, right?"

"...I know," Sangjun whispered against Inho's throat.

Inho closed his eyes to heighten the sensations as Sangjun took his cock in hand, stroked until it was fully hard. His heartbeat went up a notch when he felt the sudden heat of Sangjun's hard length sliding against his and the dizzying pressure of Sangjun's grip around their slick erections as he pumped them both. This...was new. Not unpleasant at all. Inho could hear his shallow breaths almost match Sangjun's less restrained panting.

At some point, Sangjun had let go of Inho's wrist to rest his forearm on the floor, caging Inho's head and idly carding fingers through his short hair. It was pleasant, and Inho wasn't sure when exactly he'd wrapped an arm around Sangjun, but he couldn't be bothered to mind the closeness, the warm touch of skin against his cheek.

Inho idly massaged the nape of Sangjun's neck until he could feel the shivers running along the solid shoulders, until Sangjun's hand jerked off-rhythm as he tumbled over the edge of his climax and spilled over Inho's stomach.

It might have been easy for Sangjun to find release, but Inho was still hard, and he felt vaguely disappointed when Sangjun dislodged Inho's arm from around his neck to push himself up.

Sangjun paused, taking a few moments to recover, probably, as he stared down at Inho.

"What." Inho dropped his forearm over his eyes. "You going to leave me hanging?" he half-joked, and there was a moment where it seemed like that would be the case, Sangjun a still and silent weight on Inho. It wasn't like Inho couldn't handle it though.

But then Sangjun was back to nuzzling Inho's jaw, and his deft hand was touching him again, a warm and tantalizingly inconsistent pressure.

" _Fuck_..." he sighed into Inho's neck and began making his way down Inho's chest.

Sangjun wasn't shy or particularly quiet with his appreciation as he kissed and nipped his way down Inho's stomach. And Inho, for his part, didn't question anything, taking pleasure in the almost-reverent attention he was getting.

Warm breath tickled the hairs below his navel, and Inho bit his lip at the purposeful slide of fingers teasing his balls, the firm grip around the base of his aching erection.

"You have such a beautiful cock..."

Sangjun had barely whispered it, in between his kisses, but Inho had caught the...the compliment, he supposed.

Inho let out a slightly strangled laugh and settled on feeling flattered. Here was one fundamental difference between them. Inho had never found that part of his anatomy particularly anything but plain, mostly ugly. Now _women_...they were a different story. Theirs were as pretty, delicate-looking, as varied as flowers, and Inho vaguely wondered about Mirim's...

He lost that train of thought, threw his head back, as the wet heat of Sangjun's mouth finally surrounded him. The scrape of his hair against the floor sounded loud in his ears. Through the warm haze of pleasure, he could hear a conspicuous falter in Mirim's music, and when he opened his eyes, curious, to meet the gisaeng's slightly wide-eyed stare, he couldn't help but feel a thread of amusement.

Mirim had voyeuristic tendencies. Inho remembered there was one time, a few years back, where he had a partner who'd actually gotten off to that sort of thing. It hadn't really been a repeated experience, though.

While Sangjun lavished attention on his cock, Inho watched Mirim. He saw her slightly parted lips, quirked in a frozen smile; traced the subtle movement of her biting her bottom lip. Mirim had too much training to completely forget to play her kayageum, but she was very obviously distracted.

Inho held Mirim's bright gaze until he became distracted by his approaching climax, and then he glanced down at Sangjun, at the hair he'd tangled in his fingers. He dropped his head back on the floor with a solid thunk, groaning as he balanced on the edge of his orgasm to issue a warning by tugging at Sangjun's hair. But Sangjun only tightened his hold on Inho's hip and moaned around him, and Inho was coming hard in Sangjun's mouth.

He felt way too relaxed as Sangjun swallowed neatly and moved off of Inho. Listening to Mirim's music, which had picked up again, Inho lazily tugged up his boxers and trousers and took a minute to compose himself.

Distantly, Inho registered the noises of Sangjun fixing himself up but didn't think anything of it, until he was caught off guard by the soft thumping of footsteps moving away. He frowned and opened his eyes, then sat up quickly when he saw that Sangjun was standing next to Mirim as she unlocked the door.

"What the hell?" grumbled Inho as he hurried to fix his shirt. "How am I supposed to do my job if you leave without giving me any notice?"

"I'll be outside," Sangjun said levelly. "Find me when you're done with your meal. Take your time," he ended in a clipped tone and disappeared down the hallway.

Inho glanced at the remains of his dinner and his half-filled cup of makgeolli, then shifted his gaze to Mirim, who still stood by the door. Why hadn't she escorted Sangjun out?

No matter. He shrugged it all off—Sangjun's weird behavior, Mirim's curious presence, the previous half-hour—as he finished buttoning up his shirt. He gulped down the rest of his drink before standing up.

"Thanks for hosting us and this..." he cleared his throat, "this unspeakable debauchery."

Mirim hid a peal of laughter with the back of her hand. "I wouldn't go so far as to call it that, Mr. Inho."

"It's not proper." Inho sighed, turning serious as he concentrated on finishing the knot of his tie. "It isn't something a man like him should be doing in public. He's a danger to himself."

Mirim pouted. "His secret is safe with me..."

"Please don't take it the wrong way, Ms. Mirim," said Inho, fixing his sleeves as he smiled apologetically, trying to catch her eyes until she accepted his reassurance. "Mr. Lee trusts you, and so, I do too."

She looked mollified as she gathered her skirts. "...Mr. Lee seems to _really_ like you."

"Maybe," Inho shrugged, chuckling awkwardly. Maybe it was true, but he wasn't sure if he liked hearing such an observation from anyone. "You don't find any fault in his proclivities?"

"Not at all," Mirim hummed, holding out Inho's suit jacket for him. "I've seen stranger things. But it does sadden me that he has absolutely no interest in us girls."

Inho shook his head lightly in amusement as he buttoned his jacket. Finally feeling like a civilized human being again, he patted himself down and ran his fingers through his hair one last time, and then turned to Mirim. "Do I look presentable?"

Mirim sighed prettily, reaching up to smooth out Inho's tie. "You look very fine, Mr. Inho."

Inho smiled at her. "You're too kind, Ms. Mirim," he said as he collected Sangjun's forgotten suit jacket.

"Before we leave the privacy of this room," said Mirim, trailing a hand on Inho's arm and looking up at him through her lashes, "may I have a kiss?" She delicately placed a finger on her bottom lip.

Inho couldn't stop smiling. Mirim was only doing her job, but she did it so very well. "Is that allowed?"

"Of course it is!"

Gently cupping her chin, Inho ducked down and touched her lips in a chaste peck.

"Perhaps next time, I should ask you to give me more than a kiss?" Mirim teased softly as she escorted Inho through the halls. "When you're not accompanying Mr. Lee...?"

Inho smiled ruefully. "I'm only a humble aide, Ms. Mirim. But I do hope I can listen to your music again. You play the kayageum so beautifully."

After parting ways with Mirim, Inho stepped outside the gates of the gisaeng house and immediately spotted Sangjun leaning against the passenger door of his car. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he dispassionately watched the smoke curl up into the sky. Inho didn't bother masking his footsteps, and Sangjun finally turned to see him.

There was something of a confused frown on Sangjun's face. "Why are you out already?"

"You left," Inho responded, slightly sarcastic, as he unlocked the car.

"...Didn't you want to fuck Mirim?" he asked, watching as Inho walked around the car.

"Disregarding the fact that Mirim may not have _actually_ wanted to sleep with me," Inho pointed out as he opened the door for Sangjun, "I don't screw around with anyone—well, anyone but you, obviously—on the job."

Inho waited with exaggerated patience as Sangjun just stood there with an unreadable expression.

"My dick doesn't dictate my actions," Inho clarified redundantly. "Now get in the car, Director. I want to end my day early."

Sangjun was rather acquiescent after that, so Inho turned up the volume on a music channel during the drive back. He even felt agreeable enough to readily indulge Sangjun when he was pulled into a stupid little goodnight kiss. When nothing else was pushed on him, Inho left quickly, with a parting reminder for Sangjun to not drop his clothing everywhere.

The first thing he was going to do when he got back home was rinse himself off, and then go for a jog.

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- Hyung-nim (형님) = an honorable term for hyung (형), a man's "older brother". In gangs: often used to address the mob boss, but also used as a respectful way to address any superior (in rank and/or age), since in Korean culture, one doesn't casually call people by name; the kinship implication is meant to be there due to close relationships between gang members.  
> \- jjimjilbang (찜질방) = large pubic bathhouse furnished with gender-segregated hot tubs, showers, saunas, and massage tables, and unisex areas such as snack bars, lounges, exercise rooms, and sleeping quarters  
> \- gisaeng (기생) house = an establishment that provides traditional food and companionship/entertainment by gisaeng, or courtesans/young female artists (fine arts, poetry, prose, music, etc.) who work to entertain others (sort of like Japanese "geisha"); gisaeng are not necessarily prostitutes, gisaeng houses are not brothels  
> \- hanbok (한복) = traditional Korean clothing  
> \- kayageum (가야금) = traditional Korean zither-like string instrument  
> \- makgeolli (막걸리) = an alcoholic beverage made from rice/wheat mixed with a fermentation starter; has a milky, off-white color and sweetness, 6-8% ABV; traditionally served in a jar from which individual cups/bowls are filled using a ladle
> 
>  **Names in Korean [+ alternate spellings]** , because romanization and pronunciation are sometimes tricky  
> 최인호 = Choi [Ch'oe], Inho  
> 이상준 = Lee [Yi], Sangjun [Sang-joon]  
> 김혜철 = Kim, Hyechul [Hye-cheol]  
> 유민식 = Yu [Yoo], Minshik  
> 백두한 = Baek, Duhan [Doo-han]  
> 태규 = Taegyu [Tae-kyu]  
> 미림 = Mirim [Mi-lim]  
> Ms. 박 = Ms. Park [Bak]


	7. Inho is amused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho is amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very tame, very SoL chapter :v

"Why'd our Hyung-nim even pick you up?" Duhan mumbled after taking another shot from the bottle of soju in his hand.

It was Saturday evening and Inho had been enjoying the quiet night—to the extent that he could while acting as Sangjun's driver—following a bizarrely peaceful afternoon. After they'd grabbed lunch (a rather silent affair), Sangjun had insisted that Inho get some better-fitting suits and it wasn't like Inho could straight-out refuse. Inho had played along at the tailor's, and then they'd spent a few decadently relaxing hours at a fancy sauna. Or rather, Sangjun had run into an acquaintance and they'd hung out together as they took advantage of the facilities; Inho had just sat around reading in the lounge. 

Now Sangjun was having drinks and chatting it up and doing who knew what else with his fellow kkangpae at the nightclub that Minshik operated, and Deputy Baek should be hanging around his boss, not outside pestering Inho.

"Why would he go for someone like you, hmm?" Duhan went on, undeterred by Inho's silence. "You just came outta nowhere, beating up my little bros and then bam, you're hired. Just cause you got a reputation for being some fucking 'tiger' or some shit? The fuck?"

When Duhan had dropped by for some unstated reason, Inho had absentmindedly unlocked the door for him. And then he'd promptly ignored Duhan when the kkangpae had just started drinking straight from the bottle. Inho continued to do so now as he flipped the page of his book. From the streetlamp above to the multitudes of neon signs decorating the buildings, weekend Busan nightlife provided plenty of ambient light for reading in the car.

The strong scent of alcohol suddenly assaulted Inho's nose as Duhan, squinting exaggeratedly, leaned into his personal space. Inho didn't react beyond giving Duhan an annoyed glance, letting the awkward silence drag on between them.

Duhan leaned away with a sniff. "I can see your _winning_ personality is perfect for the job," he grumbled. And then he shoved his half-drained bottle in Inho's face. "You oughta loosen up some!"

Inho gently knocked away the offering. "I'm not drinking soju when I have to drive."

"Fuck that. Our Hyung-nim won't be leaving anytime soon." Duhan pushed the bottle into Inho's vision again. "Don't be a damn pussy."

While Inho couldn't care less about that little jab, perhaps confiscating the alcohol would make Duhan leave him in peace. He took the still-cold, uncapped bottle by the neck and brought the rim to his lips, tipped it back. This brand wasn't the dirt-cheap diluted ethanol crap, and it burned rough and slightly sweet down his throat when he took a careful pull. When Duhan reached for it, Inho lazily held the open bottle away and stashed it on the floor next to his foot.

"Heeyyy," Duhan's face scrunched up, "that's mine."

"You'll have to find another bottle. So, run along now, Mr. Baek."

Duhan huffed, and after a second of thought, he threw out a flippant, "Nah." He adjusted the back of his seat to settle in more comfortably and closed his eyes.

Inho shrugged it off, not wanting to waste energy. 

Despite how resolutely Duhan had leaned back, he couldn't stay still at all and, after a few minutes of fidgeting, Inho heard him taking out his lighter and pack of cigarettes. The car was still new enough that there wasn't yet a lingering tobacco odor, even with Sangjun's frequent smoking, and Inho didn't really want to expedite the process. Sure, the window was open on his side to let in the breeze, and he  _could_  start the car to roll down the other windows, but...

"If you're going to smoke, do it outside."

"Jeeeez, you're such a nag," Duhan muttered around the cigarette as he lit it, but he still opened the door as a compromise.

The sounds outside of bustling nightlife prevented the silence between them from becoming heavy, and Inho was regretting drinking so much soju in one sip. The alcohol was starting to settle, a slight wobble in his gut and a fuzzy weight in his mind, and it was just a bit harder than usual to concentrate on the words stretching across the page.

Next to him, while he reread a passage to try processing its meaning, Inho could sense a restlessness build up yet again.

Duhan abruptly sat up straight and blew a cloud of smoke near Inho's face, and, when Inho cut him a glance because he very obviously wanted the attention, he very bluntly asked, "You're his bitch, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?" Inho asked lightly.

"Why the fuck else would you be here?"

"The managing director needed a new driver."  _Obviously_.

"Mmmno he didn't."

"Who are you to determine that?"

"I'm his trusted deputy. Who the fuck are  _you_  to determine what I can or can't determine?"

"You're nothing but a kkangpae."

"Doesn't mean I'm _dumb_."

Inho scoffed as he flipped another page of his book, reaching the end of the chapter. Duhan was silent until Inho nearly finished the last paragraph.

"Okay look." Duhan sounded eager to share his not-dumbness. "Our Hyung-nim's never hired outsiders except for Mr. Kim, and you honestly just don't look the part. The more I look at you, the more I'm certain there's no fucking way you're _just_  personal security."

Despite himself, Inho was amused, and he started paying more attention to the drunken chattiness. How much would Duhan over-share?

"You have too nice of a face, not like Mr. Kim. Pleasant, you know? Fuck, I think I can argue that you even give our Hyung-nim a run for his money, and _that's_ saying something. I was standing next to him when some guy actually approached him for a modeling gig once..." he snickered, apparently remembering something hilarious about that incident. "And here you are, all buddy-buddy with our Hyung-nim, who's looking more alive than he's been in a while. Man...you must be one fantastic lay."

All these 'compliments' feeding his vanity...Inho sure appreciated them (not). He distractedly watched as a gaggle of college kids lurched across the street in front of his parked car. 

"Our Hyung-nim..." Duhan took a deep drag of his cigarette. "He's damn good at pretending he likes the girls, and they fucking _love_ him, but he never takes them to bed. I've escorted a couple of his lays before. I can figure some things out. None of those guys have ever been in your particular position though..."

"You have a loose tongue," Inho finally commented. "Do you make a habit of going around sharing those kinds of things about your boss?"

"Fuck you, of course I don't. Our Hyung-nim's not stupid, to take dumbasses into his confidence."

Propping an arm on the wheel, Inho turned in his seat to impassively study Duhan's face as the kkangpae nibbled on his cigarette, now almost down to the filter.

In the couple instances they had interacted with each other, Duhan had made something of a habit of speaking banmal with Inho, who also spoke pretty casually (because he knew Duhan had to be younger). Granted, it was almost a default interaction setting for gangsters, but Duhan sounded particularly disrespectful tonight. It was good to establish this between them anyway.

"How old are you?"

Duhan brazenly met Inho's pointed look as he threw the cigarette butt out onto the curb. "Old enough."

"You're not half this insolent with the director." Though Duhan's jondaemal around Sangjun did have a friendliness about it. "What are you? Ox? Tiger?"

"I was born in the year of the tiger and you're a whore, if you haven't noticed already."

"You're four years my junior." Inho kept his voice soft and his gaze heavy. "Mind how you speak."

A frown flashed across Duhan's face as he blinked, and it took only another moment for him to lower his eyes and back off. "Well." He cleared his throat and, smiling awkwardly, muttered, "You're officially the scariest whore I ever saw. And probably the oldest," he said the last bit under his breath, but he had switched easily enough to a somewhat more formal register. 

"Mr. Baek." Inho leaned back in his seat and opened his book again. "Either shut up or get out of the car."

"Alright, alright...sorry, hyung," Duhan said, playfully changing the tone of the conversation and quite firmly establishing himself as a non-threatening presence in Inho's mind.

The car fell silent again as Inho went back to reading, with the occasional restless creak of the seat next to him. Duhan played with his lighter. The rhythmic clink-snap of the lid was an oddly soothing addition to the background noise outside the car. 

Eventually, Duhan lit up another cigarette, and Inho braced himself for the impending barrage of words.

"Hyung...you don't have to be so defensive. It's not _really_ a shameful thing, I mean, you know—being a homosexual."

"I'm neither. But how surprisingly open-minded of you."

"Sure it's unnatural, but our Hyung-nim's cool, so it can't be all that wrong. Huh, you should consider it an honor really, being the object of his, uh...affections."

 _Affections_ —how quaint. "If it's such an honor, by all means, apply for the position."

"Hey hey, I'm not a homo!" Duhan protested, though he didn't sound hugely offended. "Apparently he's got a thing now for guys like you, with your boring books and old-geezer personality and stupid unprofessional stubble you're totally trying to compensate with, which, please—stop going around showing off because way to make me feel inadequate. Mine's a pathetic abomination when I try letting it grow out."

A puff of laughter escaped Inho at that visualization. The sharp, masculine cuts of Duhan's features didn't need that kind of accessory; his face looked aggressively intense enough as is.

"Heh. Man's got no qualms about taking what he wants." Duhan shrugged. "Thank the spirits I'm not his type, or else he'd have made a move already. Girls are more fun anyway."

Indeed. But Inho didn't encourage Duhan with a response, hoping the kid would get bored with the whole topic soon. They weren't friends and Duhan's company wasn't a particularly welcome one, but Inho found that he didn't actually mind any of it. He just didn't want to discuss this kind of impropriety in public.

"Yeah...we got some real sexy girls at my club, you know? Juicy tits and legs for miles."

Inho glanced dryly at Duhan's faraway leer.

"When you need to scratch an itch...stop by, yeah? I won't tell Hyung-nim, and no cover charge. I mean, _you_ still gotta be into the ladies, right, hyung?"

"Thank you, Mr. Baek. Shouldn't you head back in?"

Duhan glanced at his watch and made an exaggerated grimace. "Yeah I should." He moved to get out of the car, but stopped abruptly and then turned to face Inho as he said, "Ohhh right, but Hyung-nim wanted me to bring you, so come on!"

Honestly, Inho could live without setting foot into a nightclub again; he wasn't some carefree college kid anymore. But he relented—who was he to deny such a simple request? He was impervious to Duhan's foot-tapping impatience as he took his time locking up the car.

Inho remembered, at the last moment, to grab the half-drunk bottle of soju. Duhan noticed, and when he jumped forward in an attempt to snatch it back, Inho amused himself by holding it high out of reach. Duhan, in his slight tipsiness, collided awkwardly into Inho, and he was hilariously childish when he bumped his shoulder against Inho's arm, whining, "Hyu~uung!"

It was so utterly at odds with Duhan's image that Inho couldn't help but laugh. He took another sip before finally returning the bottle. For all that the kid was a gangster, he was easy to get along with.

The bouncer dipped his head when he saw Duhan, stepping aside to open the door. Past the small lobby, into the nightclub proper, the sultry, smoke- and sweat-filled air hit Inho's senses hard and, combined with the pounding beats of the live music (Inho vaguely recognized the band), the frenetic energy of the mostly twenty-somethings on the packed dance floor was almost hypnotizing. The nightclub hadn't looked like much from outside, but this was a really popular venue; Minshik seemed to be running his business well. 

Duhan headed for a secluded area near the bar, a private, dimly-lit room where the music wasn't so loud and the cigarette smoke lingered hazily up in the air.

"Ohohh! The reclusive tiger finally appears!" Minshik raised his glass and Inho acknowledged him with a lazy salute.

The other faces curiously regarding Inho were unfamiliar. All of these people were no doubt gangsters that Inho shouldn't really be associating with, but they looked at ease, and they weren't doing anything more criminal than overindulging in imported spirits and groping the flirty women sitting amongst them. He turned a blind eye to the troubling sight of several guys in the corner snorting drugs off the table.

Inho slid his gaze over to the back of the room. Flanked by two pretty, smiling women, both wearing slinky black dresses, Sangjun claimed the couch at the head of the table. He wore an easy smile.

"Mr. Choi," he greeted loudly, somewhat drunkenly. He beckoned Inho over and then touched the bare shoulder of one of the hostesses; she scooted aside to make room.

"Ladies," Inho murmured as he took his place between Sangjun and the hostess on the left.

He was amused by what he could now see was going on under the table: Sangjun was resting one hand on the stockinged thigh of the woman on his right. Although, it definitely wouldn't hurt his aggressive-gangster image to be a little more handsy. 

Instead of critiquing Sangjun's acting, Inho just leaned in to comment softly, "This seating arrangement makes no sense."

Mere personal security and unaffiliated with the mob, Inho had no business sitting next to the boss, but Sangjun, reaching for his pack of smokes on the table, didn't say anything in response.

Inho sat back and, as best as he could in the dimness of the room, inspected Sangjun's face and posture as the kkangpae absently rolled a cigarette between his thumb and index finger before putting it to his lips, the hostess promptly lighting the tip. And then he shifted his attention to the array of food laid out on the table.

He felt a vague sense of relief that Sangjun wasn't taking drugs (at least, right now) as dangerous as philopon or heroin or whatever illegal, brain-frying shit was currently polluting the streets.

Inho had picked a small cluster of grapes from a prettily arranged selection of fruits when he felt Sangjun's leg bumping into his. He glanced over to his right. Sangjun was ostensibly preoccupied with accepting a refill of his whisky from the hostess, even as his left hand, hidden in the shadows of the table, slid deliberately along Inho's knee, thumb tracing slow, small circles. A faintly tickling minor distraction. 

Feeling something like ironic sympathy, Inho didn't move his leg away and instead focused on food. That warm and steady point of contact on his thigh never wandered up beyond the cover of the shadows, while the time passed by in a blur of constant noise and laughter. 

Inho detachedly participated in pointless small talk, answered the occasional questions thrown at him, played audience to all the stories and boasts and jokes, watched as people came and went. Some of these guys provided quality entertainment, he had to concede, and were surprisingly friendly.

And he took it all in stride when Sangjun used just about every little opportunity to touch.

Arms grazing each other, fingers brushing his lap, knees bumping, press of thighs and shoulders as Sangjun leaned against and over Inho. Casual little touches that wouldn't really raise any suspicions. 

It was stifling when Inho bothered to dwell on it. He was definitely not the person that Sangjun should be so tactile with.

Inho made up for the kkangpae's obvious lapse by indulging the hostess who'd apparently been assigned to him. He directed his smiles and compliments and quiet pleasantries to the woman, refilled her drinks and lit her cigarettes. He didn't accept drinks from her, since he was monitoring his alcohol intake, nursing his second glass of beer through a rowdy drinking contest that Sangjun wholeheartedly joined. The man drank like a damn fish, unconcerned about an inevitable terrible morning after.

Indifferent and quickly tired of the scene, Inho continued going through the motions as the party, get-together, whatever this was, steadily winded down.

When it looked like Sangjun could only doze (against Inho's shoulder, of all places) more than anything else, Inho called it a night. Finally. The room was nearly empty anyway, with only a couple grunts and Minshik discussing something quietly with the guy on his right.

Inho gave the sleepy kkangpae a few nudges, which only elicited a quiet, tired groan and a sluggish swat against his chest. He wasn't sure if Sangjun was completely drunk or mostly playing, but he didn't care either way. After nudging Sangjun's head onto the back of the couch, Inho stood up, bent over and lifted a hand, and then hesitated. 

It wasn't very smart, to slap a kkangpae awake as he sometimes did with his friends, was it? Insubordination on all accounts, Inho thought amusedly. Second option was to treat Sangjun like he would a child, or a drunk (lady) friend.

"If you don't get up," Inho muttered into Sangjun's ear, "I'll have to carry you like a little kid." Not a very impressive sight.

Sangjun frowned and sighed, struggled to get his eyes open and his head up, but he did try to rise. Inho gripped Sangjun's arm when he got unsteadily to his feet, and kicked the couch back for some more room as he wrapped his other arm around a firm waist. Sangjun held on to Inho's shirt as he leaned like dead weight. Inho practically had to drag him toward the exit. 

Minshik, who wasn't as plastered as his boss, had noticed and bid them a jovial good night. Inho was about to respond when Sangjun unexpectedly snaked an arm up around his shoulder right before stumbling on his own feet, making Inho almost lose his own balance. When he steadied both himself and Sangjun, grabbing the hand clutching—nearly slipping off—his shoulder, he met Minshik's smirking gaze and caught the sly wink. He made a face at the probable implications as he said his farewells.

Inho was careful and patient as Sangjun tried to keep his feet moving forward. He was maybe too indulgent, but he still had a job to do before he could return to the comfort of his own home.

It was past two a.m. and much of the activity had died down, but the nightclub was still open. The demographics of the clientele had changed, though. It was a little more quiet, a little more nefarious. So when Inho stepped outside, the quiet ambience of the night and the cleansing breeze, chilly but eased by the heavy warmth along his side, felt like a balm.

The walk to the car was peaceful, if clumsy. Inho fumbled briefly opening the back door before he unceremoniously dumped Sangjun on the seat.

Sangjun landed with a grunt and then slurred, "Inhooo, gimme a kiss," as he reached up—and succeeded only in swiping the empty air near Inho's chest. 

The failure, the resulting sulky expression on his face...drunk Sangjun...it was all so hilariously undignified it was almost unwatchable. Inho's discipline finally broke under the pressure of the quiet amusement that had built up all night, and he burst out laughing.

"Oh wow," Inho muttered after catching his breath, unable to stop grinning. "You're completely trashed, aren't you?"

Drunk off his ass, but aware enough to refrain from public displays of lewdness and unwise announcements until they were in a relatively safe space. Instincts kicking in, maybe.

Sangjun just stared dazedly, not doing a thing to help himself. Inho chuckled softly as he lifted Sangjun's legs—it felt like dealing with a child—and ducked into the car to get the man's entire body inside.

"Inho."

Ah, a sign of consciousness.

"Choi Inho..." Sangjun waded slowly through his words, reached up again, "are you aware..." 

His coordination was better this time. Warm hands landed heavy on the sides of Inho's neck, the sudden grip forcing him to prop a hand against the headrest for balance.

"...Inho..." 

Inho sighed to himself; Sangjun seemed determined to wear out his name.

"You..." Sangjun blinked sleepily, but his bright and slightly unfocused gaze, turned upwards to meet Inho's, was intent. There was an open warmth in the quirk of his intoxicated smile as he thought laboriously for whatever he wanted to say.

Inho shifted his footing as he waited indulgently. He found it easy to be friendly when Sangjun was like this, unthreatening and just plain silly.

"Are you aware, Inho..." Sangjun repeated, his voice and eyes getting progressively softer, "of just...just how gorgeous you are when you smile?"

...Ah. Inho winced. So much effort, just to get that out. But he continued humoring Sangjun anyway, flippantly throwing out, "Yeah, I'm aware," as he tried to pull back to look for the seatbelt.

He had heard (and appreciated) such sentiments from enough women after all, and it was obvious that Sangjun wanted Inho purely for shallow, carnal reasons. He took their word on such matters, not minding the ego boost, but he felt acute secondhand embarrassment at the fact that that kind of sweet, artlessly whispered bullshit had actually fallen out of a kkangpae's mouth. Lowered inhibitions produced some interesting entertainment, but this bordered on something a bit less comfortable.

With his deceptively strong hold, Sangjun yanked Inho's shoulders down, derailing that train of thought, to bury his nose against Inho's neck.

Inho steadied his knee on the leather seat, awkwardly straddling Sangjun as he fumbled with the seatbelt in his hands. He was having a difficult enough time, hunched over in the cramped space trying to properly settle the kkangpae, when he felt a hand wandering down his back. 

"Mmn..." Sangjun groaned against Inho's ear as the hand groped shamelessly. In his breathless appreciation, he was, again, very honest. "You're a damn fiiine piece of ass." 

Honest, but also crass. It sounded more natural.

Inho snorted. "I know." Finally done buckling the seatbelt, he took a firm hold of Sangjun's wrists.

"Let's fuck," murmured Sangjun as his hands were pried off, "right now." It seemed not to occur to him to resist when his hands were guided down onto his lap.

"No," Inho said simply. "Go back to sleep." 

With a brisk pat of Sangjun's knee, Inho withdrew from the car and shut the door. When he was settled in the driver's seat, he glanced in the rearview mirror to see that Sangjun was frowning, eyes closed and fingers rubbing his forehead to soothe the headache he likely had, with all the drinks he'd put into his system. If it was starting to get bad right now, Inho pitied the man in the morning. 

Soft radio and the rush of wind through open windows accompanied Inho on the quiet drive. Having taken Inho's advice, Sangjun was snoring faintly by the time they arrived at his residence, and he mumbled incoherently when Inho tried—and failed—to get him awake with a couple of light slaps to the face. Inho stood back, thinking for a moment.

It was a graceless exercise, but he fairly quickly got Sangjun in a piggyback; a familiar position. Inho was used to late nights out drinking with his friends. He shut the door with his knee and then adjusted his arms under Sangjun's thighs to settle the weight more stably. Heavy, all solid lean muscle, but not enough for Inho to break a sweat during the trip.

Inho didn't have keys to the place, so when he got to the apartment, he took a moment to rest his arms, carefully lowering Sangjun onto the floor against the wall to fish the keys out from the man's pocket. He propped the door open with the doorstop and tossed the keys into the stone bowl resting atop the shoe rack before lifting Sangjun into his arms.

Sangjun snored softly on as Inho carried him inside. He needed to moderate himself, or develop an even higher alcohol threshold (which, honestly, seemed impossible). 

After laying Sangjun down on his bed, stripping him down to shirtsleeves and slacks, and throwing the covers over him, Inho rummaged through the bathroom cabinets and then the kitchen for some pain-relief pills. He filled a pitcher with water, grabbed a mug, and set those and the medicine on the nightstand before leaving. 

The next morning, Inho was up after nine, somewhat late but a small concession for the weekend and to the hours he now kept. He noted the low clouds that had begun to cover the sun, and he savored the damp, cool air when he took Soonyi out for a run down to the beach. It was just slightly colder at the seaside, but he'd managed to work up a light sweat from the run and from playing with Soonyi and a couple other friendly beach visitors (who, like Inho, didn't mind the lack of sun).

Back home, he took a quick shower to rinse off the saltiness. Light rain began falling as he threw together a simple meal. He technically had a shift to get to within the hour, but it was doubtful that Sangjun would be awake or even have an appetite for lunch...

Weekends were nebulously defined territory still, but Inho was expected to be present. It was his job. 

He washed the dirty bowl and utensils, shrugged on his suit jacket, and grabbed his umbrella. Soonyi was dozing under the blankets in her little corner house when he left.

He took his time walking the several blocks down the street to his car. There was an office building facing a major thoroughfare; he'd made a deal with the building owners the day after he'd gotten the car. A fair monthly fee for 24-hour access and storage of his car in their enclosed garage.

With his leisurely pace and the misty rain, Inho was inexcusably late. Briskly, he knocked four times on Sangjun's door, not really expecting Sangjun—who likely was still sleeping off the alcohol, or maybe awake and suffering through his hangover—to answer.

But the door did open, to an unexpected sight. 

Faint shower noises drifted through the open entrance of Sangjun's bedroom as Inho processed the middle-aged man standing before him. 

He was neatly-dressed, handsome for his more advanced age. His neat hair was streaked with gray, and, as he looked Inho over, laugh lines around his bright eyes crinkled in a mysterious smile. He held himself with a poise and authority that reminded Inho of his own father. The steaming mug in his hand overlaid the whole scene with a jarring domesticity.

Inho remembered his manners. He took a half-step back, silently dipping his head in deference to the older man. Father? No shared features, though. A distant uncle? Acquaintance...?

And then a brief, utterly inappropriate notion flitted across his mind: _Sugar daddy; he wears the look well enough_.

...It was an unfounded assumption. Inho was spending way too much time with mobsters for that sort of ridiculous indecency to have rubbed off on him.

Still.

Why else would such a man be visiting Sangjun's personal residence in the weekend? Business? It was typically the duty of the junior to go out of his way to where business was held. But then there was the fact that Sangjun was in his prime, he didn't seem young enough, he wasn't actually in enough need, to still receive that kind of attention but maybe it was different between two men—...

Inho brushed away that entire line of thought. He had no interest in how that dynamic worked and it wasn't his business.

"You must be the director's new guard," the strange man prompted, with his tiny smile, and before Inho's brain could grapple for a response, he continued, not unkindly, "Odd that he would have you following him around on Sundays."

Inho settled on a soft, "I wasn't aware the director would have visitors today."

"Hm. Take the afternoon off," the man said pleasantly.

At some point, the shower had stopped running, and Sangjun, toweling his hair, had appeared in the doorframe of his bedroom. His modesty was barely preserved by a towel hanging low around his hips. He looked...well, in this interesting context, Inho supposed he looked quite ready to spend the rainy afternoon at home, warm and cozy and busy.

The unnamed man went on, "Sangjun and I have important matters to discuss."

Sangjun's tired eyes, without a flicker of shame or surprise or anything, really (except maybe pain from the lingering hangover), met Inho's.

'Important matters'...right.

Inho felt detached amusement as he returned his attention to the stranger, smiling politely. "Of course," he said, bowing his head, and then backed away. He gladly left the two to their discussion, content with his free afternoon.

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- kkangpae (깡패) = "thug/gangster/mobster"; completely interchangeable (I'm using the Korean term a lot more lately)  
> \- banmal (반말) = "half-speech" in the Korean language; an informal, casual, and potentially disrespectful way of speaking that is appropriate between close friends/relatives, between people of similar age, and from older persons when talking to younger persons. Contrast with jondaemal (존댓말) = "polite/formal speech"  
> \- hyung (형) = "elder brother"; also, often used by males to address (slightly) older males who aren't necessarily blood-related  
> 


	8. Inho doesn't care for mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho doesn't care for mysteries.

With the rain forecasted to continue into the evening and the mysterious older man's abrupt directive, Inho went back home.

Another free pass, because if he hadn't read the situation totally off target, he wouldn't be needed for the rest of the day. Not when such a distinguished, willing lover had taken the time to visit. 

 _Lover_. Inho idly entertained that concept. It seemed like the most appropriate word. Not too casual. At least, for the stranger, it was a fitting descriptor, in particular because of the affection and possessiveness that Inho had recognized in him. Old and surely wise as he was, he hadn't concealed those emotions very well.

But Inho brushed away that little mystery from his thoughts; the stranger was just another little fixture of Sangjun's life. There was a hint of a scandal there, enough to stir Inho's curiosity, but it wasn't his intention to pry into Sangjun's life more than his circumstance entailed. What those two men were to each other was inconsequential. He didn't think to bring it up in the office the next day, and Sangjun went about his business as usual.

Their mutual silence about the little episode only lasted a few hours though, until the workday was over and they were in Sangjun's apartment again.

"Yesterday..."

Inho finished arranging his shoes at the entryway, while Sangjun headed into the kitchen without finishing his sentence.

The apartment was slightly chilly from what had been another sunless, drizzly day. The muffled, trickling patter against the windows was calming, and it made the place seem a little less sterile.

With nothing better to do with himself, Inho removed his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt as he drifted over to the spacious counter that separated the open kitchen from the living room. He sat in one of the two backless chairs, facing Sangjun, and propped his arms on the cold stone surface. Watched quietly as Sangjun poured two mugs of water. Accepted the mug pushed towards him.

Sangjun took a few hearty gulps. Then: "That was the Hwejang-nim."

Inho hadn't expected to be offered something first, so quickly, but if Sangjun wanted to have this conversation right now, fine. "The chairman of your company," he ventured. "As in...the 'Mr. Chairman' you visited last week."

"Mm," Sangjun confirmed readily. "Jeon Hwejang-nim."

What a fascinating revelation. Inho could put a surname to that face and impressive title now.

Actually, he didn't particularly care, but he supposed it was a useful bit of information. It shed a different light on the little break he'd gotten last Monday. Helped explain how the hell a kkangpae (not even an _ex_ -kkangpae) could land a senior management position in a legitimate company at such a relatively young age.

Inho threw out a flippant, "Screw your way to the top, huh?" It wasn't too inconceivable a scenario after all.

There was a beat of silence. Sangjun dumped his mug into the sink and met Inho's eyes. "I can't quite believe my ears." His expression barely reflected the amusement in his voice. He reached for the pack of smokes and lighter sitting next to an ashtray on the counter. "Straight-laced Mr. Choi Inho, all about respectability and restraint, making such risque assumptions."

"Do tell if there's any other way to have read the situation," Inho joked as Sangjun flipped the lighter open.

Sangjun let out a soft huff around his unlit cigarette. "Mr. Choi," he said over the rasp of the flint-wheel igniting a flame and the metallic clunk of the lid closing. He dropped the lighter near the ashtray and started walking around the counter. "Don't let your imagination run too wild."

Inho tracked the approach. "There wasn't much left to imagine," he said and drank the rest of his water, heart rate picking up as he pushed away the empty mug. 

Wisps of smoke drifted across Inho's vision as Sangjun wrapped his arms around from behind to leisurely undo the buttons of Inho's shirt. Looked like they were going to start off slow tonight.

Letting Sangjun do his thing, Inho closed his eyes, leaned back against a solid chest—...Sangjun's height advantage in this position was quite interesting—, and relaxed. He listened to the increasing shallowness of the breaths lightly skimming his skin, and he sat passively as the top of his shirt was tugged down to bare his shoulders, loosely trap his upper arms. The touch of cool air was a pleasing contrast to the spots of warmth between their bodies.

Sangjun's palm settled warm, fingers wrapping around Inho's throat with a strange but not uncomfortable pressure. "Chairman Jeon has been my mentor and a generous benefactor for over a decade," he murmured, his words muffled slightly, and then his hands moved on, to roam free and unhurried down Inho's exposed chest. "He's as good as a father to me." 

...O-kay. Well, that didn't make what he'd witnessed yesterday any better.

"Don't disrespect him with idle speculation."

 _Then, the chairman would do well to avoid situations that might earn such speculation_.

Instead of voicing that petty thought, Inho airily replied, "As you wish. I never asked you to spill your secrets." He frowned at a sudden tiny, sharp itch against his shoulder. He reached up to brush away the fallen ash, continuing absently, "Not, of course," and twisted sideways to pluck the offender, "that you would deign to tell me if I ever do ask."

Sangjun's mouth really needed something else to fixate on. Inho glanced at the smoldering column of ash before flicking it off into the ashtray. He raised the cigarette to his lips. Just a taste.

The smoke tickled his throat as it flooded his lungs. Tilting back his head, he exhaled toward the ceiling while Sangjun peppered his jaw and neck with kisses, and shifted his legs to make room for the hand teasing at the fly of his trousers. 

Without really meaning to, Inho took a couple more absentminded drags of the cigarette while his cock was being freed...and, fuck...what a pleasant distraction. 

There was just...something, about soothing, rainy nights. It was hard to muster the usual antagonism or grudging tolerance. Inho could even admit this: Sangjun wasn't a half-bad lay when he actually behaved like a thoughtful human being.

He also wasn't going to deny how much he liked this kind of pace. Slow, subdued...nerves buzzing pleasantly from the stupidly gentle kisses, the fingers caressing his chest and stomach and the slight pressure of nails. From the practiced, purposeful hand working his dick (which seemed happy with the attention, the greedy thing)... Even the conspicuous erection poking into the small of his back, because he was honest enough to acknowledge how much it stroked his ego, to know he had that kind of effect...

The half-smoked cigarette crunched between his fingers. He abruptly snuffed out the forgotten stub in the ashtray. There was a twitch of lips, curving up in a grin, soft against his throat before he pulled back slightly to turn his head to meet that wet, earnest mouth in a proper kiss. He twisted around on the seat, with Sangjun's warm grip helping him along.

It was somewhat precarious on the narrow kitchen stool, but as their kissing turned increasingly obscene, Sangjun seemed satisfied with this position.

Inho didn't mind either, even though the rounded edge of the countertop began to press an uncomfortable line across his back through his shirt as he leaned against it. He kept his elbows and forearms braced on the smooth surface and his hands dangling idly. The chill that seeped through the fabric of his bunched-up sleeves felt good against the heat clouding his mind, against the intoxicating hot friction curling low around him. 

No...he didn't mind. He also didn't have the right to complain, when he wasn't the one doing most of the work. 

The pleasure of an experienced hand was replaced by the electrifying heat of throbbing flesh, and the slide of hard, slick cock against his own drew out a soft sigh from Inho that blended with Sangjun's groan of absolute relief. 

Bracing his left hand next to Inho's forearm, Sangjun gripped them both with his right, which trembled unsteadily in its excitement. Inho pushed up a bit from his seat, rubbing up into the circle of the eager hand, to eliminate the awkward little discrepancy between their heights. He dug a heel into the floor, with the arch of his other foot propped on the footrest, while his arms strained against the countertop as he tried to further counterbalance the weight rocking into him, because it would be such a pity for the chair to topple over right now... 

Inho nipped teasingly at Sangjun's bottom lip, barely gave him time to catch a breath before their lips met again. He could be content with just this—just kissing, touching—for the rest of night... Yeah... Shifting his weight onto his right arm, he slid his free hand down the line of hip, dragging against shirttails and tangling in the clothes that hadn't fully come off, to settle on the curve of a firm ass.

 _Not quite as ample as a woman's_ , Inho thought, his leisurely groping spurred on by Sangjun's low hum of contentment, _but still...pretty nice_.

It was a fleeting evaluation. Easily forgotten under the waves of pure sensation, fevered skin slipping against his, sinuous ripple of hard muscles under his palm, the headiness of the shared, breathless air between them. Sangjun's fist, closed around their leaking cocks, dragged out sensation, jerked unsteadily, until the pressure became unbearable.

" _Fuck_ —..." 

Sangjun's groan blew hot against Inho's chin as he came. Seconds later, Inho's own orgasm rushed through him, spilling on Sangjun's already cum-stained fingers and shirt. 

Heart still pounding, Inho bonelessly fell back into the chair. And then, he watched, completely frozen as Sangjun lifted his hand...parted those kiss-swollen lips, tongue darting out to lick away the mess coating his hand. 

It was mesmerizing, for some bizarre reason. It was almost impossible for Inho to tear his gaze away. He wasn't quite sure what to think. He felt nothing but the pulse of embarrassment (something else) shooting through his blood, and he knew nothing except for the fact that watching this scene was doing anything _but_ cooling him off...

Stop.

Inho reined himself in. Ignore; de-escalate. 

It wasn't easy, but he managed to look away before long. He tipped his head back and sagged against the counter, closed his eyes, breathed out a long sigh he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Sangjun exhaled, a short, soft huff (of amusement? exasperation?). A wavering second of indecision as he decided his next move...

Inho winced when Sangjun chose to practically collapse onto him, the sudden movement making his elbow slip back and knocking his spine into the hard edge of the counter. But Sangjun's arms immediately snaked around him, in a suffocating bear hug.

 _Does he care at all that his clothes are getting dirty...?_  Inho wondered pointlessly and, with those forearms cushioning his back, relaxed again for a few hazy minutes. Neither of them said anything while they basked in this simple comfort, their breaths quieting until even the muted background noise of the late-spring rain drowned them out. 

Inho's mind finally began drifting toward practicalities.

The mess they'd made was getting too annoying to tolerate. The need to clean himself up overrode the last calm vestiges of the moment. Inho tapped Sangjun's waist.

"Move, before our pubes stick together."

"..."

An eloquent silence. 

But Sangjun did pull away, the back support his arms had provided disappearing as they straightened on either side of Inho. Hands braced against the counter, his face close enough that Inho could see all the shifts in his expression, he opened his mouth, closed it.

Inho was having a difficult time keeping a completely straight face.

"...You keep harping on about propriety," Sangjun finally managed to say as he brought a hand up to stroke Inho's face, "but you have quite the vulgar mouth sometimes."

"I do try to match the company I keep," Inho quipped, the rough pad of Sangjun's thumb pressing against his lips with every syllable. "I'm not a prude."

"Mmh..." Sangjun murmured, "Is that so?" his eyes bright with rekindled lust. 

Inho weathered the intensity of that heated stare, feeling ambivalent about the opening he'd given. Maybe it was time to bolt.

He gripped Sangjun's arms with a decisive, " _However_ ," shoved away from the counter as he got up from his seat. 

Apparently taken by complete surprise from the strength and suddenness of the maneuver, Sangjun was unable do anything more than stumble backwards with the momentum.

"I'm not a sex-addicted deviant either," Inho went on matter-of-factly, keeping Sangjun firmly at arm's length.

Looking so damn innocent, Sangjun just blinked up at Inho.

Inho abruptly took his hands off and, pretty sure that Sangjun wouldn't do anything, backed away. "All things in moderation," he recited airily as he circled around the counter, into the kitchen.

"It's a fucking wonder you haven't shaved your head and retreated into the mountains yet," drawled Sangjun.

Inho opened a cabinet under the sink and quickly found a small pile of neatly folded dishtowels. "Monasticism isn't a moderate lifestyle," he said absently as he wet one of the towels.

"Mm hmm." Sangjun was sitting in the chair, his chin propped on his palm. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I do have conventional desires and a normally functioning sex drive," muttered Inho, focused again on wiping off the spots of mostly-dried spunk. "I'm only human."

"And I guess I should thank Buddha and the gods for that."

Their strangely friendly talk petered off while Inho rinsed the towel and wrung it out, then tossed it at Sangjun's face. It smacked dully and fell into Sangjun's hands. He shot Inho a peeved look, but that was his only protestation before he started cleaning himself up.

Inho buttoned up his shirt and, riding on the flow of the lenient atmosphere, retrieved his tie and promptly headed towards the exit to make his escape.

"Wait, Inho."

He turned, just in time to reflexively catch the item tossed at him. He stared blankly at the gleaming key sitting in his palm.

"It's annoying to have to answer the door every time you come knocking."

Right. Inho dropped the key into his pocket with a short nod. "Rest well," he said and turned to go.

"Inho."

"Hm," he grunted in response as he put on his shoes.

"I'll see you Thursday."

Yes, yes, according to schedule. Inho waved, both in acknowledgement and dismissal, and left. 

He pressed the garage-level button, and then stared blankly at the closed doors of the elevator. 

...What was he doing?

Why wasn't he fighting this more? It was difficult to settle on what kind of act to stick with. He conceded that, on a purely physical level, Sangjun met the criteria for an adequate...ah, fuck buddy (not...quite the right term—they certainly weren't _friends_ ), even if this thing between them had started out as extortion. 

Actually, still was.

Inho had to keep that fact in mind. 

It was just...easy to forget, sometimes. 

Sangjun wasn't exactly the evil, depraved abuser of Inho's initial expectations. Points, in the kkangpae's favor. Another point, Inho supposed, for helping him realize that maybe he didn't _really_ mind fooling around with a guy. Did that make him some kind of queer now?

...It didn't matter. He was granting his good judgment an extended vacation.

In the meantime, he wouldn't deny his body its basic desires. His life would fade back to normality soon enough anyway, when the kkangpae finally got bored with indulging in frivolous risks.

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder of the setting, with its socioculturally/historically-rooted biases. Characters _will_ use certain slurs rather casually, although in the spirit of general anachronism that characterizes this story, I'm trying not to include too many.
> 
>  **Translations**  
>  \- Hwejang-nim (회장님) = "Mr. Chairman"; hwejang (회장) is "chairman"; the -nim (-님) honorific suffix is attached to titles and connotes a sense of 'esteem'/indicates a relatively high level of respect  
> \- kkangpae (깡패) = "thug/gangster/mobster"


	9. Inho feels contemplative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho feels contemplative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh...no smut...and yet this chapter ended up being unexpectedly long.

"Oi! Lee Sangjun!"

Inho had been aware of the man's approach from across the narrow street, but he hadn't expected the trouble of any interaction. A few paces ahead, Sangjun stopped and leisurely turned to face the man.

"Song Hansoo," his sedate greeting indicated no surprise.

Hansoo was shorter than Sangjun but still taller than average, and slightly more imposing with his thickset bulk and harsh, square-jawed face. He would, however, look a lot more intimidating if he didn't have such a sour, shifty, and beady-eyed look about him. His hair was greased back in a style that didn't really flatter him; the patch of dark, stringy hair under his bottom lip did nothing to help either. The edges of a broad tattoo were visible under a gaudy gold necklace and open shirt collar, and several hefty rings decorated the meaty fingers of his right hand.

This wasn't exactly the best time to be caught having a moment with a someone who wasn't at all shy about presenting the image of the typical, boorish kkangpae. It was Thursday evening, and Sangjun had just finished hosting the first round (the actual dinner portion) of hweshik for the employees of one of his departments.

Hweshik was one of Inho's favored work-related 'team-building' exercises. Although his isolated position didn't allow him to feel as open as he could be, he'd gotten to know many of the employees over the last week, so it had been easy to chat and joke with them over dinner. Drinking and socializing, allowing the alcohol, the lateness of the night, and the shared prospect of a hungover next-workday to ease camaraderie between coworkers...there was little to dislike about it, when the imbibing (and sometimes whoring) didn't become too excessive.

The fact that Sangjun would do something so mundane had initially come as a surprise, but it made sense. Though Sangjun was technically senior management, he had a genuine rapport with his employees, which...was itself rather disorienting when Inho's bias against the man as a kkangpae was so strong. That calculated but honest friendliness and regard Sangjun showed his employees; the ease with which he laughed and drank with them...the sheer _normality_  that Inho had observed was almost surreal.

Now they were all on their way to the second round, walking to a bar where they would indulge in some more liquor, after which Sangjun would treat whoever remained to a fancy karaoke club...or thinly-masked brothel, there was little distinction. Tomorrow was going to be a hellish workday for the guys daring enough to drag himself to a third round—and potentially a fourth, if they utilized the club's sleazier services.

Inho had been feeling meditative, Sangjun in his pleasant alcohol-induced buzz, as they'd lagged behind the rest of the group, but Hansoo's presence began to replace Inho's tranquility with unease. He didn't want to become involved with any more high-ranking kkangpae if he could help it. He scanned the street ahead, noting the rowdy group of employees were already out of sight.

"It's been a while," Hansoo said pleasantly, a crooked grin on his face.

Sangjun didn't smile. "Only a month."

"I'm missing your face on the streets these days."

"Well, we don't really have business with each other anymore, do we?"

"Point," Hansoo nodded. "How's things on the legal side?"

"That's not for you to know." A clipped note of finality.

Hansoo's grin turned sharp. "How cold."

Inho had been silently watching the stilted interaction. Now he stared back when Hansoo, for some irritating reason, turned his attention away from Sangjun. Inho liked being a faceless background entity, thank you very much.

"You got yourself another guard dog?" Hansoo asked, strolling over. "What happened to Mr. Kim?"

Sangjun didn't answer, his expression closed off as he stood rigid with his hands tucked in his pockets.

Unfazed by Sangjun's aloofness, Hansoo stopped a couple steps away from Inho and commented, "He looks kinda puny."

Inho shrugged off that weak barb. His physique might not be quite as imposing as Hyechul's, sure, but he had a good few vertical inches on Hansoo. He subtly tilted his head, looking down his nose as he focused his icy, deliberately arrogant gaze on the kkangpae's pockmarked face.

"Whoah _ohh_ ~ Puppy's got a _really_ convincing little glare. Though you should tone down the haughtiness. You don't know who you might piss off with that kind of face."

Inho didn't shift a muscle, didn't even consider backing off from the challenge. Throughout his life, he'd done enough stupid things and yeah, he was probably too old to still lack a good sense of self-preservation, but this kkangpae rubbed him in all the wrong ways.

They sized each other up for a few more moments, until Hansoo's head dipped lightly, eyes narrowing slightly as he laughed—a low, gravelly, and obnoxious sound.

"What's your name?"

"Stop wasting our time," Sangjun brusquely interrupted.

Hansoo ignored him and, when Inho didn't say anything in that window of silence, asked rudely, "What—don't you have a tongue?" 

When he tried to sidestep the kkangpae, Inho was immediately and quite neatly blocked.

"What. Is your name?" Hansoo repeated slowly, his voice low and almost menacing.

Inho glanced at Sangjun—who looked as annoyed as Inho felt—and then at Hansoo's three bristling lackeys standing by. There was no actual harm in giving his name, even if, on principle, he disliked this kind of interaction with kkangpae.

"Inho."

Hansoo waited a beat, raised his brows. "...Inho...?"

"Choi."

Nodding slowly, Hansoo repeated, " _Choi_  Inho," and then stepped out of Inho's space.

His toothy grin was back as he said to Sangjun, "Let's go out for drinks this weekend! You know the place. Bring your boys, too. Even though you got nothing to do with me now, I miss shooting the shit like we used to."

"I'm a busy guy, Hansoo," said Sangjun, glancing at his watch.

"Sangjun-ah." The way Hansoo slightly dragged out that last syllable, as though he were patiently indulging a sulky child, sounded outrageously patronizing. "Don't be such a frigid bitch."

The severity of the look on Sangjun's face was like a physical blow. Hansoo had to feel it, too; the thug was wearing his sharp smile again, his eyes narrowed slightly as he stared back at Sangjun. Inho shifted his footing. The crackling tension was making him restless.

Sangjun's expression abruptly went blank. "Fine," he said. "I'll drop by Saturday night. Now get lost."

"We'll have fun," Hansoo smirked and dipped his head in a mocking bow.

They turned away from each other at the same time, and Inho fell into step behind Sangjun.

Hours later, more near dawn than night, while he drove Sangjun home, Inho learned that Hansoo used to be Sangjun's underling, but was now running his own drug- and sex-trafficking operation through an alliance with a different, loosely autonomous faction of Busan's larger underground criminal network...or...something. In his drunken stupor, Sangjun tripped and trailed off his words, unable to elaborate much, but Inho got the gist.

And, he couldn't care less about the politics of those small-time mob leaders and their various shady enterprises, as long as he avoided getting tangled up with even more lowlifes like Hansoo and the rest of his crowd.

* * *

Inho met (sort of) Seo-gu's notoriously long-lived loan shark the following evening during Sangjun's dinner meeting.

The site was a quaint but luxurious two-story seaside inn perched on a low promontory, hemmed in by the warm waters of the East Sea, a clean stretch of black-rock beach, and lush trees at the western base of the hills that paralleled the shore. To the side of the inn, down a short path leading some meters out and below, with steps intermittently carved into the natural rock, was a small pier, waves lapping gently against its dark brine-encrusted columns. The interior was airy and soothing, decorated with potted plants, and evenly lit in preparation for the descending night. Its polished wooden halls were infused with the comforting smell of the sea. Invigorated by the location, Inho blithely entered one of the dining rooms after Sangjun.

Hwang Kiseok was immediately recognizable, even with the faintest lines of age replacing the hard, ruthless mask of the young fighter Inho had watched in action so many years ago. Those high cheekbones and broad face and prominently hooked nose, the mischievous curve of his eyes brimming with shrewd confidence, the streaks of premature white hair. 

Inho had been prepared with a vague idea of who exactly Sangjun's appointment was, but the moment he matched name with face, he was taken back to that one vivid summer evening in '75, his second year of high school.

He'd been breathing in the day's dust as he sat on the roof of his friend's father's small shop, arms bared to the heat trapped in the humidity smothering the air as evening bled into night and cricket songs started up. While his friend had been taking advantage of the last traces of light to finish homework, Inho had watched the street below. One moment bored out of his mind, but in the next...he'd edged closer to the side of the roof—and the _intensity_ of the excitement he'd felt, from the sudden agitated hush, the stray voices and shouts of an escalating fight, the kicked dust and the scrambling confusion of a brawl that had started out as awesome...he'd been so stupidly giddy about spectating such a confrontation, until the knives had come out. And then it had become horrifying, ending with several fatalities by the time the shriek of police whistles broke up the scene.

Inho had never really forgotten Kiseok's grim expression as the kkangpae stared at the twitching body at his feet while the blood on his arms dried dark, his knife held point-down and dripping by his side. It was the mask that briefly overlaid the mild, open face of this older Kiseok.

"Sangjun-ah, you made it." Kiseok's raspy voice and half-smile were tinged with avuncular affection.

Inho blinked away the images from the past, his attention shifting to the guys standing in the corner of the room. He took the hint and stopped trailing Sangjun to stand in his own corner, across from them. A quick assessment—they were a duo, silent and doing a passable job of looking scary, although one kept fidgeting with the hem of his jacket—before he turned his attention back to the 'bosses'. From his position, he had a good view of Kiseok's face and the back of Sangjun's head.

It didn't really surprise Inho that Sangjun was friendly with Kiseok. Seo-gu district wasn't too large; many of the people who grew up and lived and worked here knew each other (Inho had seen Kiseok around the neighborhood before that fateful night), and the criminal network was even smaller. But...running into all these highly questionable figures right after the other...great, fucking peachy.

Still, Kiseok seemed harmless right now; looked like he was actually on vacation, with his loose, brightly patterned shirt and casual pants. He sat on the floor in front of a low table laden with appetizers, his posture utterly relaxed, and watched as Sangjun bowed. "I was starting to think I'd have to eat dinner alone like a friendless old geezer."

 _'Old geezer'...he has_ at most _a decade on us_ , Inho thought lightly.

Sinking down onto his knees, Sangjun said, "I apologize for the delay, Hyung-nim. I was held up at a meeting." He took the bottle of soju from the table and, with perfect form and decorum, poured Kiseok a shot. "But I keep my promises."

"Mmm..." Kiseok downed his drink in one satisfied gulp. He refilled the shot glass himself before passing it back to Sangjun.

With a soft murmur of thanks, Sangjun deferentially accepted the glass and, turning his head to the side, took a polite sip.

"It's still hard to believe how much more manners you've gained since your teenage years," Kiseok said, "fitting in the time to indulge me. And looking sharp too. Hah, it's like you're a _real_ gentleman now!"

Inho felt amused at Kiseok's appraisal. It was true; Sangjun wasn't quite as brutish as most kkangpae. And Inho didn't know where or when he'd learned to dress up so nicely, to accessorize simply but effectively, but Sangjun did cut a fine figure. Today's relatively subdued outfit made him look like a proper business executive: a solid, dark gray suit, tailored as always, black tie with the light touch of a silver tie clip, and his well-loved Rolex.

"Mr. Jeon's little pet project..." Kiseok smirked. "Corporate life suits you, does it?"

"It has its charms."

"The charms of the straight-and-narrow path."

"Narrow and stifling, but not quite so straight. I get to grease some wheels here and there...just without violence."

"Same damn fuckery as ever, mm?" Kiseok chuckled. "I guess it's good you're moving up in the world to where the damn light shines, away from the shithole we came from."

"I may be getting too complacent about my position."

"Hah! I don't think I've ever seen you complacent. You've never hesitated with your golden opportunities. Look at where you're standing now, it's so easy for you to play on both levels. You've got it pretty good, you lucky bastard."

"...I do. Enough that if I ever choose one way or another, I can afford not to look back."

"With the changing times...the virtuous road may just be the best."

"Hm. I hear you're working towards something like that, Hyung-nim?"

Kiseok grinned, "I go where my business leads me."

"That's never failed you yet."

"And Jeon Jaeyong's support is your own powerful insurance. How is he, by the way? Still angling for the National Assembly?"

Sangjun seemed to have a good amount of support from an interesting couple of elders (even if Chairman Jeon and Hwang Kiseok were both questionable in their own ways). He and Kiseok had such a normal—well-mannered, even—senior-junior relationship.

Kiseok exuded an aura of sagacity, but of course he would have to be smart, to maintain iron control over his business and continue thriving in his line of work. He had already been an established figure by the late 70s, back when young Inho, even with his budding contempt for their general lawlessness, couldn't help but feel some hero-worship for mobsters. What teenage boy, in this tiny, previously dirt-poor country, _hadn't_ felt awed by the cool, well-dressed kkangpae lord, strutting the streets like royalty, flanked by a loyal posse ready to cater to every flick of his fingers? Of course, now he felt none of that juvenile, star-struck admiration for the fighters of old; he held no illusions about idealized gang 'brotherhood' or loyalty or principles.

After Inho had returned to his hometown, had started working with Taegyu and reconnecting with other childhood friends and hanging out with the neighbors, he'd been kept up-to-date on local news and notables. There was a lull in the conversation he was half-listening to, and he took that opportunity to rifle through all those tidbits of rumor to unearth what more he knew of Hwang Kiseok. 

The loan shark was a fixture of Seo-gu, despite jail-time absences. In the last few years, his activities and reputation had started morphing into something almost legitimate. He was a bit of a shadowy figure, low-key despite his notoriety, and not many people could actually match his face with his name. He had several law enforcement agents in his pockets. And, he really was a tenacious fucker. When then-President Chun instituted the Samchung re-education camps in August 1980 as a measure to 'uproot social ills', Kiseok had been one of tens of thousands rounded up and enrolled in the correctional camps for a 'purificatory education'. Inho knew of people with no ties to organized crime—some who'd committed very minor offenses, a couple of university students that had spoken out against the president's policies—who had passed through those camps; one had a permanent limp, another suffered from chronic back pain. Did Kiseok also carry any long-lasting scars from his time there? _And what was Sangjun up to back then?_ —a prickle of stray thought, quickly smothered under the inexorable heaviness of the issue his mind had suddenly latched on to.

Life for gangsters ('undesirables', they'd been designated) such as Kiseok—and more regrettably for some innocent citizens—was a series of upheavals in the first few years under that de facto military regime, while Inho had served his time in the marine corps and then, with all his privileges and self-professed unpolitical stance, just cruised back into college life in Seoul. A safe bubble where he was energized and even swept up at times by the heartfelt passions of other, much more justice-oriented, young twenty-somethings. Truly, some of those repressive government policies against which they'd protested had been so hypocritical: though periodic crackdowns by law enforcement agencies had always hindered the growth and scale of organized crime, Inho knew the Chun government itself had utilized kkangpae as state-sanctioned political thugs to suppress justified dissent. 

Those kinds of symbiotic relationships—along with the rise of tech and entertainment and access to leisure time, all ushered in by the dizzying growth of the nation's wealth—had been advantageous for the mobs, allowing them to invade many of the open niches created by social unrest and gain an insidious foothold in society...

Inho caught himself before he wandered even deeper into that spiral of useless rumination. He didn't need to feel conflicted about his experience of recent history, remembering that he'd arrived at this point in life resolved to keep his head down and avoid scandal—political or otherwise.

An average citizen with a tiny, personal sphere of reality, Inho, unlike some of his clan and elder siblings, wanted nothing to do with the public arena. But, damn, he'd _still_ run afoul of something troublesome: the sort of unprincipled modern criminal elements, bred from the confusion and rubble of the nation's path to industrialization, that he should avoid, if only to quietly uphold the reputation of his family name instead of potentially dragging it down. A little too late, he supposed.

Focusing on Kiseok's animated face again, Inho returned his thoughts to the simple here and now.

Hwang Kiseok had survived the camp, clawed his way out like the iron-willed son-of-a-bitch he'd always been in Inho's eyes, to create his veritable kingdom. His success, even if it wasn't quite orthodox or lawful, was something to be admired.

Inho let his thoughts drift away as soft laughter and inconsequential talk filled the room.

By the end of dinner, Sangjun and Kiseok had covered a variety of news both serious and aimless. Politics and new laws, police movements, prime targets for bribes, shifting gang affiliations, patterns of business and new locations, social trends, new tech, the ever-present excitement about the Seoul Olympics, updates on acquaintances...on and on and on. Kiseok had a lot to say.

They then moved on to the inn's attached semi-outdoor bathhouse/spa, and Inho felt a wisp of longing as he drank in the harmonic beauty of the place. The far end of the area held several hot tubs and was open to the night-cloaked eastern horizon, bordered by neatly kept trees and soothing lights, with well-placed rocks that reminded Inho of landscapes from black-ink scroll paintings. Where the flooring and walls weren't light-colored wood, the theme was white and gray stone interspersed with greenery. Steam floated in the air and Inho felt the pleasantly warm humidity through his shirt.

How nice would it be to relax, enjoy this luxury...but he was on the damn clock right now.

Having no idea what mere lackeys were supposed to do at a bathhouse, Inho followed the example of Kiseok's men. He ended up skulking in the tiny locker room/lounge, near the wide, open entrance to the bathing area, while Kiseok and Sangjun made use of the facilities. What was the point of standing around _here_? Inho guessed the stoic duo were primed and ready to offer a cigarette or towel, or fetch a drink, or relay a message to the inn's proprietor, whatever lackeys did at the snap of their boss's fingers.

Inho tried to be as statue-like as Kiseok's men, but he couldn't help glancing around to distract himself from boredom, from the annoying feeling that he was wasting time. Mostly he enjoyed the soothing architecture, but his gaze occasionally drifted past the inn's other guests.

Even without watching them like some creep, Inho could tell some of those guests were nervous by the hushed tones of their conversations, how they stayed far away from Kiseok. Their apprehension was understandable. Kiseok flaunted a huge tattoo that covered his entire back, cloaked his shoulders and pecs, and sleeved his right arm down to the wrist. It was intricately beautiful work, a riot of colors and swirling, geometric designs, and yet, at the same time, an ugly thing to look at because it was such an unambiguous brand—the mark of a criminal that operated in the dark fringes of proper society.

Sangjun also sported a tattoo. Inho had gotten his first good look at it as the man walked by on his way into the bathhouse, recalling that he'd never actually seen Sangjun completely naked before, least of all his bare back (that first night, he'd been more than a _little_ preoccupied to notice much).

The design was less conspicuous than Kiseok's. Neatly confined to Sangjun's back, the tattoo was a blatant, jarring reminder of what _exactly_ Inho was consorting with. An image of the peacefully smiling Gwanse'eum-Bosal, a snarling tiger climbing up the rolling clouds behind her, as she sat amidst the sinuous coils of a grinning dragon. Although it wasn't egregiously offensive to Inho...a _mobster_ carrying the merciful and compassionate bodhisattva on his back? Seemed blasphemous and rather hypocritical.

Conversation between Kiseok and Sangjun picked up again as they both cooled down in the small, comfortably heated swimming pool nearest to the exit. With nothing else to do, Inho leaned against the wall and eavesdropped.

"How far along is Hyungsu-nim?" Sangjun asked.

"Seven months, just about, but god, she barely looks it."

"Congratulations." There was a smile in Sangjun's voice. "Cheers to a healthy baby."

"Cheers to a healthy baby _girl_. Two rowdy boys are enough for right now." A splash. "By the way, when will I be invited to your wedding?"

"I'm too busy for a wife."

"That's a weak excuse. Getting married is easy!"

"...Marriage is a committed partnership."

"Hah! It provides you with someone at home to make you food and do your laundry and raise some kids."

" _Commitment_ , Hyung-nim, promises of love and fidelity," Sangjun drawled, "some goddamn loyalty."

"They're just formalities and they don't mean anything. How many guys actually give a shit? You of all people should know. Look at all the white-collar fucks around you, throwing so much of their hard-earned money at the whores in the room salons and massage parlors. All you gotta do for the wife is lavish her with a few sweet nothings, keep her comfy with your income and busy with kids. Marriage doesn't warrant something so _noble_ as loyalty. And—fuck's sake— _fidelity_? Bullshit, when it comes to sex. We men just have too much  _love_  to confine to one person. It's in our nature to want to spread our seed."

A few moments of silence after that spiel, before Kiseok burst into laughter. Sangjun must have given him quite an expressive look.

"Damn, kid, it's not some forever-devoted kind of deal!"

"Yet a marriage of convenience is still a contract, and that, in itself, is meaningful. Anyway, I don't have time to put the necessary work into such relationships."

"Sangjun-ah...have you always been so sentimental?"

"No," Sangjun scoffed. "Which is why I don't give a fuck about marrying. It's just principle, Hyung-nim: any marriage requires at least a minimum of effort, which I can't expend right now, and I've yet to find a woman with the perfect temperament."

"Such exacting standards! Just pick some decent-looking girl, maybe one of them properly demure Seoul ladies, who can cook and won't take issue with you having affairs. That's perfection for you right there."

"Is that how you think of Hyungsu-nim?"

"Of course not!"

"Does she know you think this way?"

"Probably, and that's what I love about her. She damn well understands. And, at the end of the day, _she_ is the one I go home to."

"Except the nights you stay out, of course," Sangjun laughed. "Will you be raising your own daughter with that kind of mindset? Marry her off into a shitty, loveless life to some pathetic, philandering bastard?"

"As long as he supports her financially, there's no problem."

"If a man can't even handle the _simplest_ "—the sarcasm there was biting—"emotional requirements of marriage, why go through the trouble of it in the first place?"

"Because that's what's expected of you, wife and kids, passing down the family name. Pahh, it's stupid to conflate marriage and love."

"Nonetheless, you'd want your princess to have _some_ standards, right?"

"Ah, fuck it, maybe. Probably." Water sloshed loudly, and then Kiseok steered away from that line of conversation with, "Well, you sound like _such_ a great fucking catch, and I know some girls who'd be into your type. I'll hook you up with some of the marriageable ones, personally vetted by me! Streamline the process for you!"

"...Please don't go out of your way."

"Hahhh?! You dare refuse my kindness?"

"Yes. Did you even listen to what I've been saying, Hyung-nim? I'm not interested."

"But you still gotta do it. You're not getting any younger..."

Sangjun sighed. "Is age really an issue right now?" He sounded rather defeated. "I have other assets."

"Hah, true. You do have looks on your side no problem..." A thoughtful silence, before Kiseok slowly said, "You— _ooh_ , you already have a girl in mind! Someone  _unattainable_! A beautiful chaebol lady, perhaps? A crusty politician's prim young daughter? Maybe one from Mr. Jeon's brood!"

Sangjun shot down Kiseok's enthusiastic speculation with a calm, "No."

"...Really?" Kiseok sounded suspicious.

"Truly."

"Alright. Then give my recommendations a chance...blind-date style!"

Inho had to smile at Kiseok's onslaught of honest, brotherly persistence. People from all walks of life, it seemed, had the same nosy but well-intentioned concerns.

"Hyung-nim, it's hard to even fit _you_ into my schedule." Sangjun's good-humored nonchalance so far had sounded very convincing, but Inho could tell he was getting testy. "I don't have time for useless blind-dates."

"No way you can't make time," countered Kiseok, "even with your double-duties. I mean, look at what we're doing now! If you can afford to hang out with me...ah shit, this would've been a good night for a date with a pretty girl, huh?"

Sangjun didn't say anything, the rhythmic splash of water replacing words as he swam away from the conversation. Kiseok had scored a point.

Although he was busy during the workweek, Sangjun did try to set aside time for himself where he could. Like any person, he had to value those rare moments of privacy, especially with his being yanked to-and-fro between the two roles he juggled. Inho almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. But this was the kind of ambitious, risky life that Sangjun had chosen, with all the inconveniences (even ones as silly as blind-dates) it entailed.

After his short swim, Sangjun pleaded exhaustion and took his leave before Kiseok could actually wrangle him into any agreement or some other activity. He swiftly dried off, threw on his pants and shirt, and his expression remained neutral as he combed his fingers through his hair to settle it, leaving the damp strands to sweep across his tired eyes. Fatigue from last night's hweshik and then slogging through the day with much too little sleep had finally caught up to him. Inho collected the rest of the clothing and followed Sangjun outside.

* * *

"It wouldn't hurt to accept Mr. Hwang's help," Inho offered his completely unasked-for advice. "I'm sure he has _some_ good taste."

"...Eavesdropping?" Sangjun huffed in amusement. "Isn't that beneath your station?"

"It was difficult not to," an easy admission, "and I was bored."

They were minutes into the drive back to Sangjun's place. The refreshing nighttime breeze, blowing through open windows as the car hummed down the smooth seaside road, was doing wonders for Inho's mood. Even if Sangjun had chosen the front seat, and was currently feeling up his right hand. It was partly his own fault, Inho conceded, for deciding to rest his arm on the console box.

His idly fingers rubbing the skin between Inho's knuckles, Sangjun said, indifferent, "I'm not shackling myself to marriage anytime soon."

"You don't have to _shackle_  yourself—that's the point." And then, just to be annoying, Inho pushed the issue, "You have to settle someday."

"No I don't," said Sangjun.

"Yeah, you do," Inho countered, just as flippantly as Sangjun had made his denial. "For a man of your station—if you really intend to be more than just a common kkangpae—marriage is an obligation."

"Obligation..."

"Mhm." Inho curled his hand into a loose fist as Sangjun's fingers traveled slowly over the ridges of his knuckles. "Duty. Not a matter of whether you love the other person."

"But without any sentiment or any kind of loyalty, it's pointless."

"No." Inho kept his tone light and matter-of-fact, to match Sangjun's own languid responses. What had started off as an offhand comment had turned into an actual discussion, surprisingly enough, and it was too easy to just float along its currents. "You have to separate emotions from what's essentially an economic contract. You know this already."

"Nothing but business, with the person you'll be sharing a life with. In that case, marriage is even more trouble than it's worth."

"Unless it gets you power and wealth, connections, access."

"There are plenty of other means to obtain those." 

"If the benefits outweigh the trouble," said Inho, calmly assured, "you'll go through with it."

"As a last course of action."

The following pause lasted a beat too long, the light grip that had settled around Inho's wrist unmoving, but the serene atmosphere in the car still held. Inho glanced over at Sangjun—the first time since they'd left the inn. His eyes were closed, body relaxed...he could be asleep for all appearances, except that the aimless, slow touches had resumed.

Inho returned his gaze forward as Sangjun spoke up again, "I _really_ don't give a shit,"—he sounded faintly exasperated—"but regardless, marriage isn't something to treat lightly."

"Everyone does it. Husband and wife, kids, continuing the family line. It's the simple, natural order of things."

"Hn. You and Kiseok hyung-nim both have a rather bleak view."

"I'm being practical. Practicality is the only relevant consideration, with your preferences. Obviously, marriage for you won't ever be for passion or love."

"...Right, and I don't want to marry at all."

"Doesn't matter." Inho kept his eyes on the road as Sangjun's warm fingers roamed over the top of his hand. "You have to."

For his own good, Sangjun should listen to Kiseok's insistence. If he wanted to sleep around and enjoy his single status for a while longer, if he truly couldn't give a fuck about settling down, good for him. But there was no reason not to simply accept marriage as a necessity, deal with it early, and move on. His conception of what was a very pragmatic legal union was too lofty, too disproportionately idealized; the contradictions were unnecessarily complicated. (And...well, if marriage could somehow curb Sangjun's tendencies to inflict himself on unsuspecting fellows like Inho, that was only a positive.)

Inho didn't care _too_ much, but Sangjun, for all his aggressive impulses, had his moments of humanity, and that fact made Inho feel at least a sliver of concern. They spent enough time near each other. It was easier—maybe an inevitability—to set aside the unpleasant first impressions, the shadow of the coercive nature of their strange little affair.

"You may not prefer women," Inho went on, "but there is always room, with time, for a friendship to develop. That's just as meaningful, just as binding as any sentiment." Friendship in marriage was certainly the ideal that Inho hoped for himself. "And if it isn't enough, that's what lovers and prostitutes are for. There's no shortage of access to the latter, with all the businesses you kkangpae run."

There was no reply as the heat of Sangjun's touch finally slipped away.

The pointless conversation had gone on long enough. Inho, too, silently agreed to drop the topic as he switched his steering hand. He glanced over to see that Sangjun had crossed his arms over his chest, his head tilted slightly away, in an obvious 'I'm taking a nap now' posture. Inho turned down the radio volume and concentrated on driving.

When they arrived, Sangjun could barely keep his eyes open to make the walk up to his apartment, and once inside his room, he fell back into his bed with a gusty sigh of pleasure.

"Take off your clothes before you crash," Inho told him, heading over to the walk-in closet with Sangjun's jacket, tie, and vest draped over one arm.

A few minutes later, he reemerged in time to witness a sock fly across the room.

What kind of bizarre entertainment was this? Leaning against the frame of the closet, Inho watched while Sangjun, lying in the center of his massive bed, managed to slide off his belt and throw that aside, and then halfheartedly fiddled with his watch before immediately giving up to roll onto his side.

It didn't look like Sangjun intended to move. Inho pushed himself away from the wall, an unexpected rush of playfulness—way too familiar and which he _absolutely knew_  he should ignore—compelling him to approach the prone figure.

With a bit of imagination, it could almost feel like any carefree night with one of his lady friends. Inho had never minded helping them wind down. A few hours at her place, when she was exhausted from work or studying, that might have turned into an accidental but not-at-all-awkward sleepover. A casual evening: she'd drop by Inho's apartment, unannounced, to take a breather from looking after the siblings or parents, and they'd engage in some good-natured play before getting frisky. A pleasant phone call to arrange a time at a hotel. A fun round or two followed by a late-night snack and relaxed chatter...

He  _missed_ that kind of easygoing companionship. To so casually regard this—this _thing_ , with a kkangpae... Where did all his discipline go? His firm resolve? Damn. He'd gone too long without a reliable sex friend.

Most of them (and they were only a handful, because it was hard, almost pure luck, to find a respectable woman who wanted a friendly, physical relationship instead of a romantic emotional commitment) had moved away or moved on, gone back to school, or—for one of them—gotten married. When Sangjun's unwelcome proposition had been thrown at his face, Inho had been months into a dry spell because none of his go-to friends had been available. He hadn't sought out any hookers, either: it was just principle, when he'd gone his whole life without feeling the need or desire to pay that kind of fee for that kind of sex.

Mr. Lee Sangjun, managing director by day and blackmailing son-of-a-bitch kkangpae by night, was leagues away from Inho's usual partners.

Despite that fact, caught up with chasing such a pure, simple feeling again, Inho willingly climbed onto the bed, felt a tiny thrill when Sangjun twitched in surprise and turned over, looking up with open vulnerability in his sleep-hooded eyes.

"Don't be lazy," Inho chided, failing to be completely serious, as he straddled the thighs under him. He grasped the fabric at Sangjun's waist and pushed up to untuck the shirttails, slide a hand under the shirt to rest it over the firmness of distinctly masculine abs.

Skin was skin, and the shivering heat under his palm felt the same as anyone's and just as satisfying. He used his free hand to unbutton the shirt from the bottom, up to where Sangjun had given up after the top three buttons, and he was so focused on the task that he went down too easily when Sangjun shoved him off and rolled on top. 

But Inho was still more awake than Sangjun—and he knew neither of them would follow up on anything tonight—so it took only another few seconds for him to get them back to their original position. Sangjun reached up lazily, and Inho caught the hands before they could land on his face, pushed them down into the pillows above Sangjun's head. They stared at each other, charged silence hanging calmly for an instant between them, before Inho moved.

He unclasped Sangjun's watch, and the tension dissipated as he let go of unresisting wrists to sit back and efficiently unzip Sangjun's pants. With a few hefty, businesslike tugs, he pulled them off at the same time he scooted out of the bed.

Sangjun sat up with a faint scowl that—combined with his long, boyishly untamed hair and state of half-undress—was totally unthreatening, even if it did look somewhat calculating.

"You're a goddamn tease, Inho," he grumbled.

Yeah. Inho smiled blandly, shaking out the pants and folding them lengthwise to drape it over his arm. He picked up the discarded belt, before he held out a hand toward Sangjun and ordered, "Give me your shirt."

Sangjun smirked wryly, but he obeyed.

Catching the shirt that was tossed at him, Inho then promptly busied himself for a few minutes with tidying up the mess on the floor. When he was done, he saw that Sangjun was already nestled comfortably under the blankets, breathing soft and regular with sleep.

Inho stood in the middle of the room, for a brief second thinking, _We're both getting complacent_ , before he made an about-face.

His growling stomach directed his steps into the kitchen. Not really expecting anything substantial, he opened the refrigerator—...only to be greeted with a sealed milk carton looking lonely amidst several bottles of soju, a nearly empty carton of eggs, and one crusty bottle of soy sauce sitting next to two mysterious boxes of leftovers. For a man so strongly attached to bachelordom, it was a pathetic sight. Sure, Sangjun had money, he ate out pretty much all the time, and he was understandably busy. But, he had a part-time housekeeper, didn't he?

Ah, what the hell. Inho closed the fridge. He didn't feel like eating his own leftovers, so maybe he'd drop by his friend's bar...yeah, it was a nice night for that. An hour or two to ignore the fact that in the morning, he'd be back here again.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: Sangjun's tattoo (a simpler version, I can't do anything more complicated...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- Gyeongsang accent/saturi (경상 사투리) = regional dialect/accent/vernacular used in Busan and other parts of southeastern (i.e. Gyeongsang province) Korea  
> \- hweshik (회식) = "company dinner" from a combo of "company/business" and "meal"; pretty much a mandatory gathering, due to the collective nature of Korean society and the corporate hierarchic structure, and often more than just dinner  
> \- -ah/-yah (-아/-야) = a 'friendly'/'informal' suffix, attached to the end of someone's name when talking to/calling that person; only used if that person is the same age or younger than you, and if you're already familiar with them  
> \- Hyung-nim (형님) = an honorable term for hyung (형), a man's "older brother"; also used as a respectful way to address any superior (in rank and/or age) male; in gangs, often used to address the mob boss  
> \- Hyungsu-nim (형수님) = "hyung-nim's wife"; sort of like "the missus", a way to politely address/indicate the wife of a Hyung-nim  
> \- Gwanse'eum-Bosal (관세음보살) = the bodhisattva Avalokitesvara, or Guanyin/the Goddess of Mercy  
> \- chaebol (재벌) = a form of business conglomerate, typically multinational and controlled by a chairman who has power over all the operations; some are family-controlled


	10. Inho accepts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho accepts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the first unassumingly SoL section, it's pretty much all very awkward (gratuitous) smut, with some light bondage (again, oops). This chapter just...kept growing, and the pacing is weird, but I really really can't look at it anymore.
> 
> ALSO yes, I tweaked the title! Same word, different language (and thus, slightly different connotations and expectations).

Inho returned from his morning jog and grocery shopping with Soonyi to see Landlady Jung at the gate, speaking to a young woman. A squat, rusty pick-up truck sat nearby, its bed brimming with cardboard boxes and furniture. The new resident was finally moving into the apartment below his own.

He gently pulled in Soonyi's leash—she was straining forward to investigate the newcomer—as he walked over to the ladies. Over the past few days, ever since the last tenant had moved out on Wednesday, he'd helped Mrs. Jung with clean-up and small repairs where needed. Community etiquette, after all. Besides, Mrs. Jung had given him the entire rooftop at a fair price _and_ allowed him to keep Soonyi, and she sometimes even looked after the dog. Helping such a generous landlady was the very least he could do, especially when she was stingy about even asking in the first place; they weren't even unpleasant tasks and they made him feel useful.

Many of the occupants in the cramped little three-story apartment building were short-term renters, and, like Inho, often single, working young adults. A family of six lived on the first floor, across from Mrs. Jung and her slowly deteriorating dementia-addled husband; and another family of three on the second floor. But the remaining second-floor apartment and the three smaller ones on the third floor had each seen at least one change of tenants since Inho had moved here over two years ago, so these little clean-up jobs were something of a constant.

Mrs. Jung had mentioned that the newcomer was a cousin's daughter, one Ms. Hong Yoobin, who was fresh out of vocational school and needed a cheap place to stay while she was working and still single ('and in the market for a husband,' Mrs. Jung had casually added, 'I'm going to introduce her to a few matchmakers'). One look at Yoobin, with her petite, curvy body and modestly pretty face, told Inho that it wouldn't be long before she got matched.

He greeted his landlady and then courteously introduced himself to Yoobin, letting her know that he'd be helping her today, before he excused himself. After setting out water and food for Soonyi and putting his groceries away, Inho trotted back down. As he passed by Yoobin, he gave her another polite smile, which she returned with a timid one of her own before ducking her head and disappearing into the third-floor hallway.

Near the mailboxes on the first floor, Mrs. Jung snagged Inho by the wrist and pulled him into the corner.

"Now," Mrs. Jung started in a low tone, "I know she's a pretty young thing and all..." She narrowed her eyes up at Inho, who patiently listened, and went on, "But don't lead the poor girl on unless you intend to marry her."

"Mrs. Jung!" Inho huffed out a soft laugh, "Ms. Yoobin and I have barely met! It's too soon for you to worry about such things. Besides," he brushed his fingers over the very ungentlemanly, days-old bristles on his chin, "She's a little too young for me, and I'm pretty sure I can't lead her on while looking like a scruffy old ajusshi."

The aging landlady stepped back, putting Inho at arm's length.

Inho smiled as she gave him a very pointed once-over.

"Mr. Choi Inho," she pursed her age-worn lips, "Don't lay on that charm of yours too thick."

"You know that I won't!" Inho protested, still grinning.

"Pahhh!" she swatted the air with a weathered, wrinkled hand. "Yes," she sighed and planted her hands on her hips, "I do know...but you don't even have to try. All you need to do is flex your arms and flash that gentle smile of yours and any girl with eyes will jump to attention."

Ah, Mrs. Jung...she sometimes went overboard. Inho ducked his head, fighting and totally failing to turn said smile into a frown. "I'm already at your command, my lady. No need for such flattery."

"Hmph." Mrs. Jung looked faintly pleased.

Inho would  _not_  try though, ever, absolutely not. Yoobin had that look of diffidence about her, a guilelessness and a hint of eager-to-please on her pretty face. It was a huge sign that warned him to stay far away. Girls like that—what society deemed 'respectable' girls, who couldn't even conceive of sex before marriage, who had no idea what casual sex even meant—were lovely and pleasant, absolutely nothing wrong with them, but Inho knew, when anything more than courteous friendliness came into play, they tended to fall too hard and expect something more than he could give. 

"If I didn't know you enjoy unmarried life so much—I don't know  _why_  a strapping young man like you would, when there must be plenty of girls willing to do all the household drudgery for you, and I bet they'd even overlook adultery—I'd push you two together without a second thought!"

"Mrs. Jung, I don't start what I can't follow up on." Especially not a romance with marriage as end-game. He liked the emotionally uncomplicated nature of his non-romances with his sex friends. No beating around the bush, no courtship, no nervous emotions or expectations. And he enjoyed his freedom from marital obligations, even with all the housework that entailed. There was also the fact that he'd always felt loosely bound by familial obligations, so it might just be that it wouldn't fully be his choice when it came time to settle; he really didn't mind that. He would wait a couple more years and then, whether or not a match was arranged, he would gladly move on to the next stage in his life.

"Yes, yes. You're a nice and proper young man," she grumbled and brusquely slapped Inho's back, "even if you do spread your seed willy-nilly. I know you won't be cruel. Just watch yourself."

"I'll be on my best behavior, Mrs. Jung, don't you worry."

"Hm. Now, help us"—she gestured to the stout, balding old man moving stuff from his truck—"move her in."

Mrs. Jung was honest with her nosiness (Inho was mortified at the terms she'd used to mention his sex life), and she had a gruff way of talking and a stinging touch with her strong hands. But it was this down-to-earth manner that always made him smile, and he took it in stride as she urged him out the gate.

Inho lost himself in mindless physical labor for the next hour. Yoobin didn't have too many possessions (not that much more than what they were carrying in would fit inside the tiny apartment), so the work went quickly. In that time, Yoobin seemed to lose most of her shyness, though she was still quiet and docile. The sweet tones she used to speak to him, the soft eyes that looked up at him through fine lashes...cute, yes, but a ticking emotional bomb. Perhaps wife material; definitely not for friendly sex.

Late morning, after the labor, was bright and temperate. A perfect time to sit outside, using his low-rise wooden table for one of its intended purposes, with a spread of juice and fresh fruit he'd picked up from the market earlier. After inviting Yoobin, the mover, and Mrs. Jung up to the roof for the refreshments, Inho made every effort not to pay special attention to the young woman. He put the greatest distance between himself and her, continued to use polite jondaemal with her, and kept his expression pleasant for everybody.

He was, however, manipulated into cutting up the fruit together with her after she exclaimed—scandalized and quite assertively—that a man shouldn't be doing such menial work. He bowed down to her insistence and handed her the extra fruit knife he'd brought for such an occasion. When it seemed like she felt just a little bit more comfortable and in-the-moment, Inho made a playful race out of peeling mandarins and cutting apples. Well, he was the only one viewing it as such; thankfully, because although he wanted to believe that he let her win, the way she actually handled the knife was scarily efficient—a skill level that nearly matched that of his mother.

Ms. Yoobin was earnest, sweet, and domestically skilled. A good person and a good wife-to-be. Not what Inho was looking for right now.

After the snacks and after he ushered everyone downstairs, he emphatically turned down Yoobin's offer to clean up the spread. She was so kind about it that a twinge of guilt nipped at him for the curtly polite way he'd treated her. It was a relief not to share even the roof with her anymore, but he had to get over feeling guilty about stupid little things. Without any established boundaries, it was socially inappropriate and much too forward to invite a lone, unmarried young woman into a bachelor's home, just so she could do the goddamn _dishes_.

What he _should_ feel guilty about was his unrepentant love of casual sex...but he'd already made his peace with this part of himself. He very much enjoyed the physicality, and—he wasn't going to lie—he got a rush out of the illicitness of it all. He was aware of just how lowly a vice, culturally and socially, he was engaging in.

Casual, friendly sex was 'unheard of'. It was vulgar and 'immoral', too 'progressive'; 'free love'?! one of the 'social ills' destroying the country; men and women shouldn't have such relations before marriage; and so on. While the stigma was steadily decreasing as the country kept moving forward, it was always a tricky thing to balance his desires within the confines of society. It was even worse for a man with a family background like his...but, it wasn't a crime, and he could never equate it to associating with mobsters or drug-dealers or murderers.

So, with his very earthly attachment, Inho was pretty certain a reputation for being a player still hung around him. Mrs. Jung apparently suspected, some of his friends also did (and they sometimes ribbed him about it). Such things had a tendency to leak out, but it wasn't for lack of his own efforts to keep the subject of his frolicking confined between him and the women he was  _friends_  with. Everything was spelled out, consensual, and fun; they all had a very clear understanding; and they always used condoms when applicable (because accidental pregnancy turned everything on its head). Those were details no one probably cared to distinguish, though—not that he disclosed them anyway. Sex belonged firmly in the private sphere, between the participants; he wasn't a _complete_ slave to his vice, to blithely ignore social norms.

Better safe than sorry. Consorting with a man like Inho wasn't what demure, husband-seeking Ms. Yoobin needed. Even if she had no interest in him—of course she didn't, she was just conscientious about proper etiquette—he knew not to sow any seeds of misunderstanding.

In his solitude, he gave Soonyi a nice long cuddle, to which she was mostly indifferent, tired from the walk. He showered off the sweat and grime, spent a few minutes on a light shave, and threw on the first suit he grabbed, not bothering with a tie. He took several mandarins with him before locking up. Yoobin was outside the gates, leaning against the brick and smoking away whatever stress she might be feeling; she bowed her head when Inho gave her a nod of acknowledgement as he passed by.

So far, it was a normal, pleasantly eventful Saturday.

* * *

...Ah.

He'd been too complacent.

His sluggish brain finally catching up, Inho gave the handcuffs a perfunctory tug as he calmly met Sangjun's eyes, which were bright with vitality and too much self-satisfaction.

Yeah. He hadn't been thinking at all. Not when he'd blithely let himself in, not when they'd very civilly eaten the lunch (takeout from a restaurant down the block and fruit from earlier) he'd brought over. They'd been nothing but businesslike, and he'd been absentminded. His own fault.

It was also his own fault for sending weird signals. He'd been...a little too friendly, a little too inviting. He was, after all, fully aware of Sangjun's low threshold of self-control. Maybe it had been the way—when those totally unsexy, completely utilitarian police-grade handcuffs made another appearance—the way he'd sort of laughed it off, and then only really concentrated on making Sangjun work damn hard to be able to use them. And maybe it had been the highly tactile nature of their genuinely fun bout of play-sparring; understandable. That adrenaline-fueled high had successfully distracted him as well, from considering what, exactly, was supposed to happen afterwards. His own mistake.

In retrospect, he'd been worn down, disarmed, right at the outset. First, by Ms. Yoobin's move and the easy, pleasant banter he'd shared with his neighbors. Then, by Sangjun's appearance: jarringly casual, with bare feet and loose track pants and cheerful tie-dye yellow t-shirt...his very courteous demeanor.

And finally, by the teasing way Sangjun had asked, "Shall we play your little game?" as he tapped those cuffs against his chin, wearing such an innocent expression. Inho had been staring into artfully widened eyes, peeking up from behind the ruffled sweep of hair, when he'd so easily agreed and he didn't know how or why... No. One reason was obvious: the man knew how to use coyness like a weapon. When he wore none of his professional masks, when he wasn't so aggressively put-together, Sangjun could be quite charming, in a way that reminded Inho (yet again) of some of his lady friends.

Inho had no idea he could let another man could play him like this. It was a valuable lesson.

Only slightly breathless, smug face looming inches above, Sangjun didn't seem very winded from their impromptu workout. Bastard probably got plenty of rest last night. (Hah, last night...Inho knew he shouldn't have teased.)

So. This time, with no interruptions and no excuses—without Chairman Jeon, without excess booze, without appointments or tranquilizing rain or any leniency in the air—the current situation was, beyond any doubt, going to lead to the one activity that Inho had somehow managed to avoid after the first two times.

"These are rather unnecessary, don't you think?" he attempted conversationally.

Sangjun's smirk was lightly mocking, but warm, as he quirked his head and answered, "I don't want you to get the mistaken idea that you can actually escape. Not today."

 _Oh, busted_ , Inho thought ruefully, but he maintained his neutral expression. "How pragmatic of you."

"Mmhm..." There was no trace of playfulness or previous coyness hindering Sangjun's quick hands from nearly ripping open Inho's shirt.

That rough, honest enthusiasm didn't help in slowing Inho's own racing heart or muffling the buzz of his nerves, and he watched mesmerized as Sangjun moved on down to his trousers. 

"It's been two goddamn  _weeks_ ," Sangjun growled as he impatiently unbuckled the belt, "and I intend to use this afternoon very..." he flicked the top button open, looked up to meet Inho's gaze, "... _very_ productively." And when his hand deliberately brushed down the fabric as he unzipped the fly—a reflexive need to intercept the touch made Inho reach down—

The clink-scrape of metal immediately cut short that movement.

Stole away a huge chunk of his attention, too, and he used the opportunity to take in a steadying breath.

He focused on the slight discomfort in his arms. Being so restrained wasn't enjoyable, but it was easy enough to just deal with...or, should he try to protest further, because these handcuffs were _really_ not meant for this purpose. The chain was too short for much but awkward grappling, the cold metal left behind odd sensations around his wrists, and they chafed.

Even if he didn't struggle against them, the afternoon was apparently going to be a long one so...by the time Sangjun felt _generous_ enough to take them off, they would probably—hmm...they _would_ leave marks...

Inho clung on to that strangely arresting thought as he let his eyes drift shut, absently lifting his hips at the insistent tugging at his trousers (he was, admittedly, a little too tired to really protest).

Marks...yeah. He could picture them clearly. Like very obvious red brands around his wrists. They wouldn't linger any more than a day or so. A bit of bruising maybe, a few shallow abrasions that might itch for a few hours, during which his fingers would keep drifting to them. Exactly as they had done many times before when he'd unthinkingly rubbed at tender scratches, lovely parting gifts from his more enthusiastic friends, trailing down his shoulders and back, until all niggling sensation faded from his mind as such trivial pains always did. And then...and _then_. Before the blemishes disappeared, he would just so happen to catch a glimpse. It would be a sudden little reminder. A visceral instant of sense-memory; the pull of unforgiving metal against his skin, the solid weight and comforting heat of another body rousing the vital need to _touch_ , but being unable to, being forced instead to—to just  _take_ it, to—

Inho opened his eyes, compelled by the almighty distraction of a hand lightly stroking his hardening cock, to the disorienting sight of innocuous, cream-white ceiling. He was hyperaware of the blush heating his face as he realized that he wasn't quite opposed to the prospect of being marked in that particular way,  _and what the hell kind of t_ _hought is that?!_  

Sangjun's perversity was infecting him or something...and, speak of the devil, he hadn't been aware of just how focused the pervert's attention was, feeling a jolt of surprise when he glanced down to meet that heated gaze. He'd been doing a studious job of ignoring just how frantically his heart raced, how exposed he was, now stripped of every piece of clothing except for the shirtsleeves pathetically clinging around his arms...and yet, he was unable to dredge up any sort of defiance against the damn kkangpae's little smirk.

So he closed his eyes again, squirming uselessly away from the light pressure of teasing hands to find a more comfortable position.

Anyway. Fine. Whining about the handcuffs was silly. He wasn't going to waste his breath and dignity on pointless cajoling.

And he supposed—yeah, maybe it _was_ a cop-out, a stupid excuse—that the physical imposition gave him no say, freed him from choice, and made it easier to accept the fact that it was Sangjun's prerogative to use Inho's body exactly like this.

He didn't have the freedom to dictate what Sangjun could and couldn't do. He didn't need to exercise the option to reciprocate anything: not the trailing kisses pressed lightly into his chest and stomach, not the gentle touches, and definitely none of the blatant desire. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he _had_ been taking things at his own pace, taking full advantage of all the openings that Sangjun had given, so—okay. Restraints. They were a justified tactic.

The intrusion of one slick finger abruptly forced Inho to shelve all attempts at rationalization.

He breathed deeply, in...out...coaxing his body— _it's simply a matter of will_ —to compliance as he felt a second digit breach him. He yielded to the way those wet fingers slid into him, how they prodded and stretched, vaguely burning, mostly indefinable oddness but not bad, and then he felt them curl up just so and—

A flash of pleasure, powerful in its unexpectedness, punched the breath out of his lungs and made him forget everything for a second.

 _Why. Why does that goddamn spot even exist? Why does this have to feel so good?_  It was the only clear string of thought that kept flitting around in the sensible part of his brain while he endured the toe-curling sensations for longer than he'd ever needed to.

He felt himself being pulled, slowly, very slowly but surely, towards the edge...and then, through the clamor of his pounding heartbeat and harried breaths, he managed to process the rough, strangled little noise that Sangjun made—right before the fingers abruptly disappeared.

The cessation of that relentlessly precise pleasure brought Inho mingled relief and frustration, but it allowed him to fortify himself. Control his body's reactions until he wasn't acting so...so wantonly.

He spied the flush on Sangjun's face before they were kissing. Well...it was less of a kiss than it was a sloppy, painful clash of lips and teeth, too desperate, but Inho didn't fight it. A few moments later, Sangjun pulled away and, with half his weight atop Inho, paused unsteadily as if trying to get a hold of himself. His shallow, erratic breaths blew hot against Inho's collarbone, the fabric of his track pants doing little to mask the heat, the sheer, solid _presence_  of his erection nestled against Inho's.

Inho gladly used the window of reprieve, when Sangjun sat back to hastily undress, to gather some more of his wits. He was vaguely entertained by Sangjun's few seconds of groping around the sheets for the lube, and he let his eyes appreciate the display of skin, the trimly defined muscles underneath. A well-proportioned physique; none of the familiar softness and curves of a woman, but a pleasing aesthetic nonetheless. Inho couldn't complain. He tracked the movement of sturdy hands, as masculine-looking as the rest of the body, to a very prominent erection. 

It was somewhat daunting. To really  _look_ at the physical manifestation of another man's unmistakable reaction in a sexual context. To actually take the time to know the shape of another man's arousal, pay attention to its specific curves and the length and breadth of that, hah, fleshy weapon, all angry-looking, stiff and flush with blood.

Daunting...but there was also a particular thrill that went straight to his own cock. It vaguely reminded him of the first time he had ever seen a girl sprawled naked, just for him. She'd been a second-year noona from the neighboring all-girls' high school, and he in his third year of middle school. He knew he shouldn't have, but he'd followed her anyway because she was just too pretty and nice, and he'd been so busy thinking of how he could bring pleasure to both of them without risking pregnancy...how he could both satisfy the noona and prove himself to her. He'd felt a lot of things that day he'd gotten his first intimate lesson on the female anatomy, and that jumble of feelings—especially that first-time high, fueled by gung-ho excitement and inexperience—could never really be replicated. Maybe it was the newness of this moment that unearthed this old memory.

Inho ran out of time for other musings when Sangjun finished preparing himself and surged forward. At the insistent nudge against his hip, Inho absently obeyed—the intent was familiar—and twisted slightly onto his side. He wriggled around to find a relatively stable position as Sangjun fetched up against him from behind and, rough fingers pressing into his muscles pleasantly, lifted his thigh. A knee tapped the back of his other leg that was resting on the soft sheets, prompting him to bend it slightly, slide forward. Inho rolled his head back into the pillows and sighed as warm, lube-slick hardness rubbed against the sensitive skin behind his balls. An interesting feeling, to say the least, and he savored it while he could, while the tip of Sangjun's cock prodded around near his hole.

It took a few tries before the head slipped through the ring of muscle, and Inho shut his eyes tight, gripping the metal bar of the headboard to anchor himself while he adjusted. He was familiar with how to get his mind and body to relax for this. Without the hurdles of mental resistance, it was a simple thing to transmute the slightly painful stretch, the odd, piercing sensation of too-fullness, into a kind of aching pleasure, sensual and burning and...and _unique_ , to being fucked like this.

Mouth hovering over Inho's chest, Sangjun half-sighed, half-groaned an unintelligible string of curses—a sound of pure, unambiguous bliss—as he eased in deeper. "Fuck..." he panted, lips pressed over Inho's heart, "You're a pro at taking cock now, aren't you?"

"There's nothing difficult about sex," Inho retorted.

"Mmnh, that's right..." Sangjun started to move. "You were _made_ for it...such a good whore."

Inho faltered, ears curdling, and he warned, " _Oi_. Watch it."

Sangjun met Inho's glare with a sarcastic smirk. "Cute."

Lips curled in a silent twitch of a snarl, Inho directed his exasperation to the ceiling. It really was irritating—nothing but a challenge to his pride, and he'd never _quite_ experienced such a provocation before all this.

Why did Sangjun feel the need to assert just that little bit more of—what, exactly? His thuggishness? Because Inho associated that kind of talk with sleazy brothels and grimy back alleys, and he'd never felt inclined to having sex in either. Or was it Sangjun's _charming_ way of displaying his dominance? Inho wasn't a stranger to the exact same possessive urge that the kkangpae must be feeling: that uncontrollable surge of primal compulsion to  _take_ , to penetrate and completely and utterly  _fill_  someone. Was any man immune? That heady impulse was usually as fleeting and insubstantial as a cool summer breeze for Inho but it was  _there_ —constant—a familiar instinct...and yet, such shows of supposed control didn't have to be degrading.

"Didn't we have this discussion before?" he growled.

"Hmmn..." Sangjun grazed his palm down the inside of Inho's thigh as he whispered huskily, "I don't know..."

Sudden stimulation—a practiced hand cradling his erection, fingers gently tracing down from head to shaft and spreading the traitorously leaking fluid—made Inho flinch, grit his teeth against the shivers prickling his nerves. He knew he could get rid of the persistent touch (if he wanted to) traveling lazily up and down and dizzyingly again (if he really _really_ wanted to), with just a bit of maneuvering...fuck.

"...I wouldn't quite say you're turned off," Sangjun purred and left Inho's erection alone.

Inho caught his breath and muttered, "Not yet anyway. Stop wasting time and finish up already."

"Sorry Tiger," Sangjun laughed; Inho rolled his eyes at the stupid, persistent nickname. "I'm not letting you go for a long while," he murmured, keeping his thrusts slow and deep.

They were moving at a strange pace. It felt good enough that Inho couldn't hold onto his irritation while at the same time it afforded him leeway to distract himself. "Are you seriously planning on spending the whole afternoon in bed?" he asked the top of Sangjun's head. "Lazy."

"We'll get plenty of exercise," Sangjun murmured distractedly, his hair tickling Inho's chin.

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Better than doing you?"

"Chores, perhaps."

"...How does your yangban ego let you rank yourself lower than chores?"

"Okay, then  _I_ have better things to do," Inho amended, "like chores."

That made Sangjun look up, eyes narrowed slightly at Inho's unimpressed, goading expression. His fingers dug hard into the muscles of Inho's thigh and it was the kind of blissful pain from a _really_ _good_ massage...

But Inho forged on, steadily holding that dangerous gaze. "There's so much to take care of," he kept up the airy, frivolous chatter because it gave his mouth something to do, and because it was distracting Sangjun. "Groceries and laundry and what else, ah—I also have to scrub down the bathroom, water the plants...being a single man isn't some walk in the park."

"You're very...talkative today."

"A testament," Inho drawled, "to the absolutely mediocre job you're doing."

"...Mediocre."

Inho wasn't quite prepared for Sangjun's unamused retaliation. Using his legs to trap Inho's, Sangjun yanked them back at the same time he shoved forward. It was a disorienting maneuver that forced Inho to very awkwardly try to counteract the sudden loss of balance, and the cuffs pinched at his wrists as he floundered for a second. He quickly managed to brace his hands around the bar and dig his elbows into the pillows, but before he could fully regain his bearings, his head was wrenched up and back by the hair.

That stung. He didn't know his hair was long enough to just fucking _grab_ like that (so it was probably time for a trim)...but instead of a protest, he panted out, "You going to try proving me wrong?" to the plain white wall behind the headboard.

 _Stop that_ , his brain weakly admonished, _H_ _e's not one of your 'friends'; stop being so damn unguarded_.

But, what was the point anymore?

He closed his eyes when Sangjun nipped the shell of his ear and tangled their legs, and then he was pretty much being—there was no other, less crude way to put it—nailed to the mattress.

The grip in his hair was unyielding, forcing his spine into a slightly uncomfortable arch, and he had to straighten his right arm to maintain upper-body support against the creaking bed. The heavy breaths pressed into his shoulder felt too hot through the folds of his shirt. And yet. The naturalness of their exchanges—just how unthinkingly he had slipped into an intimately familiar mode of interaction, as organic as the sex itself—was utterly gratifying. Warm satisfaction purred just underneath every inch of his skin, mixed with concentrated points of slight pain, slight burning in his muscles that made him feel so  _alive_. The uplifting glow of sunbeams through the crack in the curtains only heightened the strange encouragement he got from listening to the helplessly lustful noises spilled into his back.

Inho had always been open to the pleasures of the flesh when he allowed himself, and that was easy to do with women. A fun, uncomplicated pastime. And now he was sure: the person fucking him like he would a woman, taking the active role  _he_ was so accustomed to, except—except, with that aggressive roughness, that added hint of uncaring violence, claiming and using his body like it was so much unfeeling property...the person could be anyone, really, and he couldn't care any less because it was—it was almost—it was  _just as good_ as what he normally enjoyed.

It didn't matter how he'd gotten to this point, or who Sangjun was or what he did. It was increasingly difficult to hide behind the illusion of helpless compliance binding his will like the metal around his wrists. He accepted whatever this whole thing was. He really did. Not in so many words, perhaps. He didn't know if he could ever bring himself to say it freely, aloud, to any man; and he didn't know if he wanted to be in a position to give his wholehearted consent. But he did accept...

 _Stop thinking_ , because there was nothing beyond fevered skin and strain of muscles, beyond the distinctly masculine groans and the absolutely filthy sounds of flesh slapping flesh. Nothing mattered except the pure catharsis of animalistic fucking, base and raw and _It's nothing special, a scandalously different flavor maybe, but it's just sex._

...With a man. Right. Sangjun was definitely a guy (and it was never more obvious than right now). He was also a gangster bred and raised, despite what he had made of his life and despite his noble ideals of sentiment and marriage. Those two factors had to eliminate any possibility of the awkward burden of  _feelings_  aimed at Inho.

A profound assurance, because Inho didn't really understand the emotional intensity of the whole 'romantic love' thing, and ensuring that no-romance stipulation was always the step that took the most effort and delicate negotiation when it came to _finding_  partners. Most women, as dictated by society, tended to equate sex with marriage...or, not so much love but something else—something more than fun and friendship.

All he needed or wanted was sex and easygoing company, and he'd been blessed with both for so long. So, he knew how he should play out this opportunity.

_Enjoy it while you can. Just one more of your adventurous experiments before you dive back into 'normal'._

Distilled down to this comforting thought, the coercive nature of this affair could even be justified. There was no problem, really—he was getting something interesting out of it—even if he would always feel some degree of ambivalence. He wasn't exactly what Sangjun was...and, sure, it had been fucked up from the beginning, but he could afford to set aside the carelessly tossed threat that had roped him into this.

And, in the meantime...

Inho could sense just how close the trembling body behind him was to losing it.

He clenched around the hardness filling him, earning himself a nice, strangled shout from Sangjun, who stilled abruptly as he came. Harsh panting filled Inho's ears and then his hair was free; he could finally drop the tension in his arms. He lowered his head, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow to ride out the last few listless thrusts. Sangjun collapsed half on top of him after slipping out.

For a suspended moment, nothing but the staccato of their breathing filled the space around them. And then, a gentle hand was petting the back of Inho's head, soothing the negligent pains from the hair-grabbing. Inho sighed into the pillows. Yeah...this kind of thing, the _friendliness_ of the gesture, made it real easy to not give a shit about what he was screwing around with...

He squirmed when the pressure against his erection quickly became too uncomfortable to ignore. The solid weight moved off, giving him room to maneuver onto his back again. And then he just stared blankly at his pathetically needy organ. He didn't know how he was supposed to get off, since that energetic fuck hadn't quite been enough with all the rationalizing he'd been occupied with. Any other time, he would've at least _tried_ using sheer willpower alone to calm himself.

The mattress shifted as Sangjun leaned over to press their lips together in a brief, incongruously chaste action.

Eyes half-lidded, lips parted a fraction, his handsome face very...open, with the desire dusting pink across his cheeks, Sangjun watched Inho watching him, while his hand traveled southward with obvious intent. Or, not. He followed the line of hip, stroked the shuddering skin of lower abdomen and teased at the patch of hair, but he never quite reached the erection. Inho's eyes fluttered shut in defeat, and fuck if he cared because it was difficult to weather the heated candor of Sangjun's expression.

Another little peck on the mouth, another few peppered along his jaw, before those lips moved on.

Sangjun kissed the bumps of Inho's collarbones, patiently working his way south. When he dragged his tongue over a nipple, Inho frowned and grunted, twitched away—weirdly sensitive, but not a particularly erogenous zone for him—and Sangjun abandoned the area to suck a bruise into the skin just above. He seriously took his sweet-ass time as he made his way down, from collarbone, to chest...to stomach, where he lingered over _every_. fucking. plane of muscle...kissing and lightly scraping his teeth over the skin, his tongue always following.

This was almost like the sort of languid worship that Inho himself loved to devote his efforts to, when his friends had the leisure to give him the opportunity. He loved to draw out the experience and indulge all of his senses in a beautiful, deliciously willing body. He would revel in moist heat and soft skin, in the heady, heavy scent of sweat and sex, in the honey-sweet moans and hitching gasps. He would listen to the music of breathless chatter venting the day's worries, idle talk between friends, while he let his own tongue play with something far more tangible, far more sublime. He would notice the clench of fingers in rumpled sheets and feel the sensuous twist of hips under his palm, trace the curves of muscle and the ripples of damp flesh. A brisk screw had its merits, but that wasn't all there was to sex. Being as physically close as possible to another person, in a safe, friendly, and comfortable environment; being aware of how much pleasure he could give to another...was so much more fun, so much more  _rewarding_ , than seeking his own quick release. His own personal gratification, so it never bothered him that the ladies usually didn't have the time or energy, either to let him take his time or to reciprocate.

Being on the receiving end...felt pretty nice. While he would have preferred the short-lived intensity of a quick, impersonal screw (all the faster to get back home, though that wasn't an option right now) with Sangjun, he didn't mind being weak sometimes. It was just...he missed offering his services to the ladies. He missed feeling _mutual_ delight that was easily given and freely taken.

He brushed aside the vaguely sentimental thought and focused on this moment. An alien reality where he was technically not the active party; where he couldn't feel quite so unhindered in giving himself—not when his own physical desires and attraction to the other were still undefined. But Sangjun was, objectively speaking, doing a fine job. Even if this wasn't what Inho quite needed or wanted or maybe it was, he didn't know.

And finally— _finally_ , with a tantalizingly light grip around the shaft near the base, fingers gliding along the vein, Sangjun took Inho in hand as the touch of his lips drifted down to...

Oh, right.

Inho opened his eyes at the rush of cool breath against his cock. This was becoming—was this really going to be a regular occurrence?

He shifted his legs to accommodate Sangjun's body curling up against them. He wouldn't do anything to discourage this because...yeah, he liked seeing those lips stretched around him. He wouldn't discourage, but neither would he do anything to hurry up the process. As much as he wanted his release, he was far from comfortable enough with this—with _any_  man, to even playfully beg or whatever. If Sangjun wanted to spend so much time on such things, so be it...and, damn. It was always a sight.

Lips hovering. Pressing open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, each touch followed by a flicker of tongue. When they reached the head to lap at the dripping fluid, Inho's hips twitched up to try to invade that tempting mouth. That made Sangjun pull back slightly, his smirking lips glossed with precum—Inho bit off a groan before it had any chance to turn into an embarrassing whimper—but he was back again quickly enough, licking a stripe from base to tip. And, wasting no more time, his soft (very pretty) lips engulfed the head and sucked. Inho grit his teeth and drew in a hissing breath, closing his eyes for a steadying instant, before he continued to watch the performance. He focused on wet heat and swelling pressure. On trying his damnedest _not_ to thrust up, even with Sangjun's bruising grip preempting that very action. On trying to _breathe_.

And then... _fuck_ —Inho muzzily wondered why anyone would try stuffing his whole length down their throat, why they would even _want_ to try because thinking about himself doing that for another man brought a split second of visceral discomfort because there was a damn good reason why people had a reflex and—...and Sangjun was too good at this. Inho gave up his brief attempt at diversion to just let himself feel.

He wasn't going to last long, but no one could blame him.

Watching Sangjun's head bob up and down, hearing and feeling the vibrations from his hungry little noises...and Inho couldn't help but delight in those throaty moans, so unselfconscious and so utterly earnest. At least one of them had zero reservations about enjoying this and god, that awareness was nearly as overwhelming as the dizzying pleasure of the physical sensations crashing through the jumbled haze in his mind.

Inho was suddenly right there—teetering at the precipice of release. He managed a rasping "Hey," a courtesy warning, but Sangjun didn't hesitate, plunging deep, as Inho spilled into the tight throat working around him.

That sinful mouth wasn't quite finished and _fuck_ if it was humanly possible to look away from the vision. Gender...really didn't matter, right here, right now, did it? Completely inconsequential, in the face of the utter debauchery of this—of licking off every stray drop and _savoring_ it like it was the sweetest ambrosia...and—oh.

Inho was too dazed to do anything but let his eyes zero in on prettily reddened lips as they shifted targets. It had been ages since he last tasted himself on anyone. He closed his eyes as the heavy weight settled on top of him, opened his mouth at the caress of a warm hand on his cheek and the brush of wet lips against his, and he let Sangjun take over with—this time—a competent kiss.

He felt so off-balance without the use of his own hands. He kept forgetting the restraints, kept being abruptly,  _frustratingly_ , reminded with every absentminded tug. Yet, he couldn't give a shit anymore whether or not he had any control over anything, because Sangjun was proving himself. The kiss was enthusiastic and heated, slow and patient and criminally lascivious...just the way Inho liked it. But not so mind-blowing that he didn't notice Sangjun's throbbing hardness against his groin. Again. Already...not that Inho, his nerves thrumming in greedy anticipation, wasn't approaching a similar state.

It was damn convenient that his libido could be so responsive, that it wasn't turned off at all by ceding control. He didn't even try suppressing a needy, whining groan when Sangjun finally pulled away for air.

Moments drifted past as they both tried to catch their breath. Sangjun propped his arms on Inho's heaving chest at some point, but Inho barely registered the slight discomfort of that weight through the pleasant, muffling haze...

"So...it's the kiss that has you whimpering like a bitch for me."

...Wow.

Inho opened his eyes, the fuzziness clouding his senses dissipating.

Hearing that shit had felt remarkably like having a bucket of day-old leftover fish dumped over his head. A sure-fire way to keep a guy all hot and bothered. He leveled a flat look at Sangjun. "The more you waste your efforts on running your mouth with that kind of crap, the lower the probability of an encore."

Sangjun returned the glower with an unreadably placid look of his own, wisps of hair hanging across his eyes. As seconds ticked by, a pensive little pout formed on his well-kissed lips. "Is this your way of asking me to fuck you again?" 

"What kind of shitty translation is that? It'll be crystal clear when I  _ask_  for something, I'm pretty blunt about the things I want."

A smile tugged up the corner of Sangjun's mouth, and he just stared calmly.

Inho had no idea what Sangjun was thinking about (who cared?), but he didn't mind the short break. He didn't mind the fucking either (hey, it was technically exercise), but if Sangjun really wanted to use up the entire afternoon doing that, then sure, it was probably a good idea to pace themselves.

"Words say one thing, but your attitude is sending conflicting messages..." Sangjun licked his bottom lip, slowly rubbing his stiff length against Inho's. The pleasure had taken a backseat during the interlude, but—well, _that_ made Inho take in a sharp breath. "...And it begs for another reaming."

Inho raised a critical eyebrow, an expression he'd refined over many years, so he was pretty sure it looked adequately snooty even in his slightly flustered state. "Think you're up for that? Why don't you take another few minutes to rest?" he drawled, "Because you still seem a bit winded."

Sangjun sat up. "Are you deliberately provoking me?" he asked pleasantly, lifting Inho's right leg.

"I'm only concerned about the director's welfare..." Fingers skimmed along distractingly, from shin to knee to thigh, light kisses trailing after them. Inho forgot about talking.

He sighed at the firm, tickling points of pressure against his sensitive inner thigh; bit his lip as Sangjun sucked at the skin just above the side of his knee. His dick had definitely gotten with the program again, throbbing in time with his pulse fluttering under the metal around his wrists. The roughness of the palms lifting and spreading his legs felt almost comforting, and the abrupt touch of hard cock against him sent a vitalizing crackle down his spine. He felt the press and give, felt the slight burning friction as Sangjun entered with one swift push.

Inho wasn't given a chance to prepare for the merciless accuracy of the shallow thrusts. For a few indeterminable, gasping moments, all he could do was hold on to the bedframe, sweaty palms slipping against the metal, and keep his trembling legs anchored tight around the lean waist. Let the physical sensations flood through him.

Sangjun's control unraveled soon enough, however, the precision of his attentions quickly dissolving into wild, rhythmless abandon. Exhilarated by the slight strain in the muscles of his arms and abdomen, Inho shoved back against the relentless vigor that tried to crowd him back into the headboard. He could start thinking again, sort of.

"You're very lively today," he started, the words hitching with the bed-rattling force driving into him. "Did you take some herbs beforehand?"

Predictably, a mighty peeved expression crossed Sangjun's face, and everything came to a grinding halt again. Another moment for them to breathe; another opportunity for Inho to be an annoying little shit.

"Does it fucking look like I'm impotent?"

"Getting worked up over that kind of thing is unbecoming," Inho snickered. Although...it had, admittedly, been a very immature jab at Sangjun's virility. No man wanted to hear such insinuations.

Sangjun narrowed his eyes, but the way he was still panting from exertion made that look rather unthreatening.

"Hmm," Inho grinned cheekily. "So I really am just _that_ irresistible to you, am I?"

"...Choi Inho."

"What, Lee Sangjun?"

"You're an arrogant little shit."

"Mhm, and your inability to keep your hands off me isn't doing anything to help fix that vice."

"You—..." Sangjun's expression softened markedly while his gaze wandered across Inho's face, "...you're absolutely right," he murmured as he caressed Inho's cheek.

"Kind of an easy admission there."

Sangjun smiled, the pad of his thumb gently scraping over Inho's chin. "You really do make a lovely picture, spread out helpless under me."

"Not _helpless_ ," Inho retorted, a flare of competitiveness prompting him to tap his foot against Sangjun's waist.

Not exactly a kick, but a rough and unsympathetic gesture nonetheless. It fractured the strange calmness that had immobilized Sangjun, and he instinctively flinched away from the little reminder of what Inho could do with a functioning leg. He laughed, soft and breathless and openly warm, as he grabbed the errant limb.

It wasn't a hold that Inho couldn't break away from, but he'd made his point. He obligingly (unsubtly) wrapped his leg around the waist again so they could get on with the fucking, because Sangjun's cock had slipped out at some point during their talking.

But Sangjun didn't seem terribly bothered by his rudely interrupted pleasure, and he looked at Inho with that faint, persistent smile. "You're cute, Inho."

No sarcasm...Inho made a face. Who was this shitty-ass kkangpae calling _cute_? 'Cute' was fine when women used it to describe him (only on rare occasions, thankfully), but he wasn't sure he liked hearing it from another man.

"Cute. And sexy, and beautiful—"

"Riiight, thanks I guess."

"And..." Sangjun's palm slid along the curve of Inho's thigh, "the shapeliest pair of legs I've ever seen."

"Okay," Inho snorted. "But I really don't want any bullshit sweet talk when I've just had your cock up my ass." They were already fucking, not trying to woo each other or something equally inane to get to this stage.

"No bullshit compliments..." And that smile wasn't dimming at all.

Inho flattened his expression as he crisply shook his head. He understood where the urge came from (he loved to compliment his ladies too), but he was a guy and, honestly, the last person to need any reassurance about his looks, especially from another man. Besides, he was too sober to keep listening to such bullshit (Sangjun was too sober to be  _saying_  such bullshit). He might have been trying to lighten the mood in a roundabout way, to replicate the friendliness he associated with sex—and kind of failing because this was a topsy-turvy situation—, but right now, it was getting a little bit  _too_  friendly.

"Alright."

Inho grunted, starting to relax at the prospect of blessed silence. And then, he was bemused when Sangjun leaned down—apparently forgetting about his erection—to rest his forearms across the top of Inho's chest. The uncomfortable pressure of elbows digging into him (seriously, what was he, furniture?) was a distraction but mostly...it was rather amazing, that Sangjun could actually pace himself like this.

"So I'll just fuck you until you can't walk."

This wasn't any better than bullshit. It _was_ a challenge, though. "Don't bet on it."

Sangjun quirked his head, his boyish grin wavering on the edge of laughter. It was a bizarre contrast to the ridiculous, cringeworthy vulgarity of his next words. "I'm going to breed you so full you'll leak cum for hours."

Inho grimaced. "Be realistic."

"You'll be squirming in your seat from—"

"I'll be standing up," Inho declared immediately, because Sangjun was just fucking around with him now, and he really wanted to reach up and smack his palm over that vulgar mouth. "Now stop—" he sighed, and then dryly amended, "—please, I want you to shut up now."

"...You started it."

"Yeah, I know. So if you agree to stop talking, I'll promise not to start any more shit."

Their mouths should be occupied with anything else, like another kiss. But Inho couldn't make the first move, not when Sangjun's grinning face was just a little too high to reach. He was doing his part to draw out their afternoon of marathon sex, but this break had lasted long enough. It amused him though, to think that Sangjun might not actually make good on his own promise...

Inho's gaze drifted away as he noticed the slant of the afternoon light. Should he invite a kiss, or wait passively? Should he ask for it, and risk stepping on his pride? Acknowledging 'wants' in his mind was one thing; another to say it out loud. Did he or did he not want this...? And there his mind went again, to that loop of useless vacillation on a concluded matter. Why was he trying to give himself a headache?

Before Inho's interest could stray any further, gentle fingers touched his chin, bringing him back. Inho raised his eyebrows at Sangjun, who stared for a few moments.

The silent staring didn't have time to stretch into awkwardness before Sangjun dipped his head for a brief kiss. "...Okay," he breathed against Inho's mouth. "I'll shut up. If that's what you want."

Okay. With a gruff, noncommittal grunt, Inho tilted his head up to capture those lips again.

* * *

Where Sangjun mustered the stamina for another couple or so hours, Inho had no idea. He couldn't deny it, though: the sex was good, and it was fun, made even better by the fact that Sangjun had actually stopped wasting his breath on crude talk. The time had flown by in a hot, sweaty, and very pleasantly tiring blur. 

But the last climax had wrung Inho dry, and he started actively counting the seconds as he steeled himself to endure another round. The depth of his relief, however, when Sangjun rolled off and stayed on his side of the bed for several long minutes, belied his readiness.

Admitting it sort of bruised Inho's ego, but there _did_ exist a threshold beyond which any kind of sex became unpleasant all-around, too sticky or painful or, perhaps worst of all, too _boring_ (the inability to use his hands was the probable culprit here; it got old pretty quickly, he'd found out today). 'Annoying' was probably the closest to perfect encapsulation for such an occasion. Still, he'd been prepared to grit his teeth and deal with that annoyance when it came; begging to stop was out of the question because his competitive spirit wouldn't allow him to give in first. But it was a wasted effort, apparently. Sangjun had likely felt the strain as well. 

It took a while after Inho calmed his breathing for his head to also stop spinning. For several fortifying minutes, he lay on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow, the sweat on his back slowly drying and his ass dully aching. He couldn't remember exactly the last time he'd had so much sex in one go. Even if the only thing he'd actually done was lie back and take it, he felt like he'd gotten a decent workout...

He grunted in vague approval when Sangjun reached over sluggishly to finally remove the cuffs. They landed on the carpet somewhere with a chiming clatter as Inho made a tremendous effort to sit up and shrug off his abused shirt.

"...Not my brightest moment," Sangjun murmured tiredly as Inho absently tossed the damp, wrinkled thing aside.

"Mm. A little too hasty there." Inho rolled his shoulders to ease the stiffness in them and idly scratched an itch on his chest, a smirk playing on his lips. "Just couldn't help yourself."

"You played along just as readily."

That he had...

Inho made a split-second decision. He sprawled back on the tangle of sheets—on a spot that wasn't too damp with sweat and other bodily fluids—and closed his eyes, intending to bask in the lingering haze of exhaustion for a few more minutes. After those few minutes, he would get up, take a shower, and...well, he was still stuck with Sangjun for the rest of the day, but they would get something to eat...

"Next time, ditch the handcuffs," he sighed.

"But you look so nice in them," Sangjun's soft words drifted from somewhere above next to him.

"You're a pervert."

"You weren't complaining."

"I was being kind, giving you an advantage. You wouldn't be able to handle me otherwise."

Sangjun hummed low, the amused sound followed immediately by the clink and rasp of his lighter. He had to have been craving a smoke for hours now.

A reluctant but honest concession danced on the tip of Inho's tongue, that he'd had fun—truly, in an awkwardly companionable 'huh, let's do that again sometime, buddy,' sort of way. Because, if he accepted this, if he was going to consider this just another convenient and 'friendly' physical thing...

Okay. So, not really _friendly_  (...not yet?). They technically started off as adversaries, even if he wasn't feeling so much hot-blooded antagonism, especially not right now. Employer-employee? Not quite right. Bullying kkangpae and annoyed victim. But, no, he wasn't a goddamn victim, and he'd had enough melodrama in his life already. He'd opted to disregard some of the circumstances; and he was going to make the best of this, make it so they'd _both_ be using each other for sex, because apparently they both needed it (and he, apparently, didn't mind spicing up his life with this sort of scandalous affair). Hmm...acquaintances? ...He didn't sleep with 'acquaintances'... Shit, _whatever_ their relationship was.

Inho halfheartedly tried to rub away the dull hammering at his temple before dragging his hand down his face. Fuck it.

To hell with this pathetic indecision.

He would treat this like any other arrangement between 'friends'.

That meant he was going to have to exercise appropriate behavior. Or, at least, make nice. But...Sangjun really was an odd case. Not the usual; not a nicely mannered and amiable woman. Inho still puzzled over how to deal with this fact of Sangjun's in-your-face maleness...but then again, that fact _did_ make one thing clear: the man didn't need any reassurances or other forms of encouragement regarding his performance to get to his head. Besides, this atmosphere between them was plenty friendly enough. 

Inho stopped trying to think, completely gave up trying to talk.

He breathed in pungent cigarette smoke as the smell reached his nose and listened to the slow, calm puffing, the sheets soaking up the heat from his cooling skin, as he succumbed to the languorous mood. Just for a couple minutes.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: Random potential interaction between Inho (L) and Sangjun (R).

  
approx. translation = 'lol calm down director lee' and 'please shut up mr. choi'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations/Notes**  
>  \- ajusshi/ajeossi (아저씨) = "middle-aged man"; "mister" (casual way to address middle-aged men, usually strangers, much older than you)  
> \- jondaemal (존댓말) = "polite/formal speech" in the Korean language, used to speak to adults/strangers/anybody above you/a social peer; basically, it keeps a person at arm’s length, i.e. maintains a 'polite distance'  
> \- noona/nuna (누나) = "elder sister" used by males to refer to/address (slightly) older females, who aren't necessarily blood-related; gender equivalent to 'hyung'  
> \- yangban (양반) = the upper classes/nobility/aristocracy of old, pre-Japanese occupation, Korea  
> The South Korean school system goes 6-3-3: elementary school is grades 1-6; middle school, grades 7-9; and high school, grades 10-12.


	11. Inho warms up some more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho warms up to Sangjun some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-indulgent crap alert! ...But I guess that's not news. Just know that I'm trying to stuff in as many of my favorite tropes into this thing as I can! :9  
> Translations, as always, are at the end of the chapter.

Warmth pressed along his left, tickling at the fringes of awareness. Inho opened his eyes. He noted the dimness of the room, turned his head just enough to glimpse tousled hair and shell of ear and curve of cheek. Soft, even breaths feathered against his shoulder.

Slowly, he blinked up at the ceiling. Sangjun had pulled a sheet over both of their lower bodies before snuggling up, even slinging his arm across Inho's stomach, and Inho had _slept_ through it all.

The morning work must have hit a little harder than expected...yeah. Sure. And the bed was comfortable, easy to just sink back into...

He listened to the steady rhythm of undisturbed sleep beside him, feeling vaguely conflicted. Some disappointment with himself, that a trifling amount of exertion could betray him like this. But there was also, undeniably, a familiar comfort in sharing another's heat.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm and then saw the mess around his wrist. It was obvious, even in the weak dregs of early evening light filtering through the curtains. He lifted the hand, a few inches away from his face, for a brief assessment: faint welts, some bruising, traces of peeled skin around the protrusion of wrist bone. A sexy fantasy? He snorted to himself. In theory. The angry-looking skin looked pretty damn ugly and, now that he'd paid it attention, itched like hell.

Resisting the urge to scratch, he dropped the arm, sighing softly and closing his eyes for a moment longer...

No. His brain was too awake now to ignore his disgusting state. Really, how the fuck had he managed to fall asleep like this? It was past time to kick himself out.

He gingerly unstuck Sangjun's arm from his chest, nudged away the leg resting against his thigh, and, after taking a deep breath to adjust to the sudden twinge in his lower back, scooted out from under the sheets.

A muffled sigh drifted from behind as his feet touched the carpet. The noodly weakness in his legs was something he was completely unprepared for, and he wobbled slightly before he had to sit down on the edge of the bed. Mortification rushed hotly up his face; he hadn't fallen over or anything, but this was still undignified.

He checked on the still-dozing figure behind him. With the unruly sweep of hair across forehead and thick lashes settled peacefully over high cheekbones, Sangjun looked charmingly innocent in his sleep, and Inho took a moment to consider the harmony of those features before turning away. Rather a heavy sleeper. Good. It meant he wouldn't have to suppress the urge to punch a smug grin off that face.

That reassurance, and the simple resolution that he _really needed to clean up right now_ fueled Inho to quickly recoup and stand up. If there was one thing he liked more than good sex followed by a rejuvenating nap, it was the cleansing shower afterwards.

The strong, warm spray beating down on his muscles felt heavenly, and he allowed himself to spend more than a couple short minutes under the water to extract those last vestiges of pleasure, thinking of nothing, clearing his mind...until his stomach began to growl in earnest. Simple thoughts of food occupied him while he finished up and, drying his hair, emerged from the bathroom.

When he lowered the towel from his face, both his brain and his feet stumbled to a halt.

Sangjun had kicked away the sheets and was stretched out on his stomach, head turned and resting on a pillow over his folded arms. A rather interesting but certainly not a novel sight; Inho had seen just about everything already.

Yet he felt a peculiar flash of lightheadedness as he took in the full, unobscured length of that shamelessly displayed body. The modest spread of Sangjun's left leg, bent at the knee with foot propped on right calf, wasn't blatant enough to mean anything at all, but in this kind of setting, there was an oddly intimate vulnerability in that particular arrangement of lean limbs.

Inho absently hooked the damp towel over his shoulder. He was staring longer than appropriate, he knew, but...it was a well-shaped back. Not that he'd ever made—nor would he continue to make—a habit of admiring the masculine form. Some things (like shallow appreciation) were just inevitable after spending so much _quality_ time with the object of his scrutiny, and welcome enough in his relaxed state.

A sigh drifted over to his ears as he gave the tattoo, warped from this angle, a cursory glance.

And he watched the languid stretch of upper body, the turn of head and the ripple of sleek muscles. The unintentionally provocative tilt of hips, thighs spreading open—just a bit wider—bent leg arcing over suggestively rumpled sheets, inch by incremental inch...

Perhaps, in a different context, he might have taken such...openness, as an invitation.

_An invitation to what, exactly?_

Well, now that was a rather precarious line of thought, wasn't it. Touching on unacknowledged desires, on presumptions and possibilities he didn't feel like exploring.

He looked away, regaining clarity at last when he located his trousers, belt, and boxers, which lay on the floor a few feet away from the side of the bed. He dismissed all stray thoughts as he approached to briskly pull them on. Wondering where his socks could be, he spotted his shirt, crumpled sadly against the footboard, and warily held it up between his index finger and thumb. Even disregarding the dried sweat, he wasn't so sloppy that he'd ever wear such a wrinkled mess outside...

Toes twitched at the periphery of his vision, diverting his attention away from the disaster in his hand, again towards the bared expanse of skin.

It was natural, easy, to trace the edges of bony ankles and the definition in the calves, thighs...to let his gaze linger, before following the curving path up to the tattooed back—

Where the bodhisattva's serene smile effectively reprimanded him for his continuously wandering eyes.

Right. This was enough lack of discipline for the day.

He moved his feet, taking the couple of steps to directly address Sangjun, and calmly met the still-drowsy gaze peering up at him. "You have a washing machine, right?"

Sangjun blinked a few times. "...What?" he croaked.

Inho opened his mouth to repeat the question—very slowly this time—but was cut off.

"Yes. Why?"

"So I can impose on you," Inho said, giving his shirt a tiny, demonstrative jiggle.

"...Okay...but you can just—throw it in the hamper."

"Those sheets also need to be washed."

Completely awake now, Sangjun moved to sit up. "The building employs housekeepers. I call them in as needed so you don't need—"

"Do you have no shame?" Inho cringed internally at the thought of matronly cleaning ladies touching the bed. They'd suspect (and wouldn't care because they were probably used to this, given their job), but he just... _couldn't_ let them clean up after him. Not when he was standing here, with plenty of time to think about what exactly had happened on those sheets. "Besides, we still have the evening ahead of us, and we are definitely not going to spend any of it on—..." he gestured meaningfully at the bed. "Now get up, get clean."

Sangjun just sat wordlessly, brow furrowed as he looked up at Inho, who waited for some other reaction. A display of aggression, or domineering resistance, or a counter to Inho's assertion—whatever else. A little reminder that Sangjun was supposed to be the tactless gangster who'd brought both of them to this surreal moment.

A few more heartbeats of mutual staring, and...nothing, except Inho's waiting silence and the harmless confusion on Sangjun's face.

Taking over the situation, Inho said, "You're meeting Hansoo later." The corner of his mouth twitched up as Sangjun's expression soured. "I'm sure both of us would like dinner before that ordeal, so," he tugged at the sheets, "shower."

Inho was aware of his nagging, but he was serious—about getting Sangjun out of bed, about doing the laundry. Because he didn't know what else he was supposed to do between now and the meeting.

After all, he'd gone through the trouble of deciding how exactly he would treat this affair, and falling back on some of the more casual habits with his usual friends just simplified things, made it easier to deal with this current uncharted territory: still confined to Sangjun's home, after the fucking, before the escorting (or guarding or babysitting, whatever his job entailed at any given time). Cold professionalism _now_ , right here, just between the two of them...wouldn't work quite as well anymore, with his mindset. Too forced; too much conscious effort to maintain the stoic mask.

Sangjun wasn't giving many hints on how he would navigate this. Most of their specific patterns of behavior—especially for their public roles—had already been tacitly defined, so, for this vast private sphere, it was Sangjun's move. _He_ had to settle on a degree of familiarity (or formality, didn't matter) they could work with, because their day was only half-finished and neither of them could really ignore the other.

Another window of processing time and almost-awkward staring, until Sangjun finally looked away with an amused huff. That galvanized both of them into action. He got up, heading for the bathroom, and Inho, without wasting another second, gathered the fabrics and left the bedroom as the shower started up.

Since he hadn't explored the place before, it took a few seconds for him to decide which out of four doors he should open, but he went with the one farthest from the bedroom, across the kitchen and just past the entryway. He opened it, and—jackpot. It was a tiny space, cluttered in a homey sort of way with cleaning supplies and other miscellany, and led out to a narrow balcony. There was a fancy dryer too, he noted, before spending a few minutes on first finding the detergent and then figuring out all the extraneous switches. After getting the washing machine to work, he opened the sliding door and screen of the balcony and stepped out, leaned his arms on the railing.

The refreshing breeze, the lovely twilight sky outlining the dizzying view...the odd domestic peace...he enjoyed the simplicity of it all, until the evening chill became less than comfortable on his bare skin. He left the glass door open to air out the small room, found his socks (finally—they were strewn on the floor near the bedroom entrance), and headed for the closet.

There was a stash of extra clothing in the car, just in case of emergencies, but he really couldn't step out of the apartment shirtless. He searched idly, though he doubted anything here would fit his larger frame...he just needed something to throw his jacket over until he could change into his own.

As he opened one of the drawers, hoping to find something casual (better than nothing), slightly damp skin pressed against his own bare back and arms wrapped around his waist.

"I know how to do my own laundry," Sangjun groused, his chin lightly tapping Inho's shoulder with each syllable.

"Mh, I would hope so, because it would be pathetic if you didn't."

Sangjun just hummed shortly, hands stroking aimlessly, as he leaned against Inho, who continued his search unperturbed by the weight glued to him like a barnacle.

So this was it. Tentative friendliness on both their parts, and unsurprisingly liberal touches from Sangjun. Even mobsters needed a break from all the posturing to indulge in the occasional cuddle, Inho supposed. Actually, this was a bit more tactile forwardness than he was used to, but he was okay with it. He caught Sangjun's wrist before the hand could wander down any further.

With a sigh and a funnily affectionate nuzzle, Sangjun detached himself. "No one will assume indecency just because you're not wearing a shirt," he said, fishing out a plain white t-shirt from the drawer that Inho had opened.

"That isn't the point," Inho commented, taking the proffered t-shirt and pulling it on. "There's a time and place for everything," a little too snug—he distractedly plucked at the hem, "and I know you're more than aware of the fact. I try not to blatantly air my business out in public, where it doesn't belong. Anyway," onto more pressing matters. "What do you want for dinner?"

"You choose."

Inho gave Sangjun a dry look. "It's your job to make decisions."

"You're doing rather well, deciding things by yourself." Sangjun turned away to pick out his own clothes. "Go on."

 _Oh yeah?_ Inho raised his eyebrows. "We'll take a walk." He tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned against the doorframe. "Just go casual for now. I'm thinking light but spicy, and there's a restaurant down the street I want to try. Laundry should be done by the time we finish eating, you can primp some more while I run the dryer. I'll drive you to that second round with Hansoo and afterwards, when you're thoroughly plastered, we'll call it a night and I'll bring you back, put your drunk ass to bed, and then go home. Sound good?"

Grabbing a shirt off a hanger, Sangjun sauntered out of the closet and bluntly said, "No."

Inho followed him out. "...'No'?"

"No, I object to—" The rest of the words were smothered behind Inho's palm.

There...wasn't any negative reaction, Inho noted as he pleasantly declared, "I wasn't asking for that kind of input." The physical interruption had been rude enough; in the process, he'd also knocked Sangjun's head back into the wall. But Sangjun merely sank back against the surface, dropping his shirt to hook his fingers over Inho's belt. With barely a pause and quite aware that he was probably pushing it, Inho went on, "That _will_ be how the rest of the evening goes."

...Still no resistance. Just the insistent tugging at Inho's waist.

Maybe the afternoon romp made Sangjun feel agreeable and he only wanted to _play_ some more. It was an amusing notion, one that meshed well with Inho's categorization of their relationship.

So Inho obliged.

He stepped forward, practically looming as he brushed his thigh up against the half-zippered fly. "Let's try this again," he murmured, sliding his hand down. He watched his little finger catching on bottom lip—a flicker of tongue as that mouth remained invitingly open—and stilled his palm above bare collarbones. Fingertips loosely settled over the lively pulse at the neck, he lifted his eyes back up to Sangjun's. "Does that sound like a plan?"

A single, minimal nod.

"Good." Inho closed the centimeters between their faces, his mouth descending on sweetly pliant lips.

All the previous touchy-feeliness must have rubbed off, because he didn't mind giving what Sangjun was so obviously asking for. He was fine with the hard grip at his waist, with the neediness in the slow grind of crotch against his thigh, and even with the stirrings of excitement in his own blood, an involuntary response to the other's unabashed desire.

Then—a growling reminder, followed immediately by a tiny, matching rumble from Sangjun's stomach, which effectively destroyed the cozy little atmosphere as Inho snickered.

Sucking gently at the thoroughly-kissed bottom lip in a parting touch, Inho pulled away, noticed the tiny curve of an honest smile. He tangled his fingers with the ones at his waist and quipped, "Not sure about you," as he dislodged the hands and backed off, "but I am starving." He retrieved the dropped shirt and handed it over. "Hurry up and get dressed."

Very _un_ hurriedly complying, Sangjun muttered, "You're very...bossy."

"You say that like it's some kind of revelation," Inho lightly threw over his shoulder as he walked away to wait by the exit.

* * *

Drunken fools, the lot of them.

Inho smacked a gangster's face, making the man stumble and fall, and quickly scanned the sea of heads in the room before he grabbed and twisted the leg of another thug who'd tried to kick him.

Alcohol and tense sort-of-rivalry never mixed well, and yet, here they were.

'Going out for drinks' with Hansoo meant chilling at a luxuriously furnished noraebang that didn't really suit Hansoo's brutishness, but he was a regular here, apparently. The large room had been filled with a handful each of Sangjun's and Hansoo's guys, a long and narrow table acting as a partition—at least in the beginning—between the two gangs, and some pretty girls to entertain them. They'd done fine, eating and drinking and belting out songs, the strict divide between the gangs gradually broken down as they mingled in their increasing drunkenness.

The general attitude, balanced between raucous fun and aggressive tolerance, had lasted until the two-hour mark, when the atmosphere took an abrupt nosedive: Hongshik, one of Sangjun's guys that reported directly to Duhan, had stood up with his fist flying. The loud thwack of knuckles against jaw had sent a rush of exhilaration through Inho in the instant of shocked silence.

Then the girls had shrieked, Duhan had moved as the first strains of the next song started, and the room had devolved into uncontained violence.

Inho had no idea what the hell had gone down—he'd generally stayed out of the way, near the back—but it was probably something minor. One oddly-worded phrase, one vague implication, taken out of context and completely out of proportion, and they all jumped to mindless action like hot-tempered, blustering teenage boys. Except, these fights didn't end with drawing first blood, did they? No, these were _adult_ men, thugs with reputations to uphold, and they had to go further than merely spitting out profanities and bloodying a few noses...

Despite his restlessness, Inho had only stood ready to jump to the girls' aid (they did well, getting out of the way on their own) and to defend or whatever. After watching for a few seconds, Sangjun—who'd just sat back in the plush leather couch, looking unconcerned and slightly buzzed, a glass of whisky in his hand—had turned to Hansoo with a coldly apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Hansoo, something must have come over my boys. I know this isn't the time or place to work out our differences. Mr. Choi, find Duhan and Hongshik..." he glanced at Hansoo's right-hand man and then back to Inho, "Try to break up the fight."

Inho had darted a look at Hansoo (who'd worn his unpleasant grin as he'd waved at his own deputy to do the same), before obeying with relish. He didn't have the excuse of alcohol, but he never claimed he wasn't a fool. 

Yeah—fuck.

He loved this. The rush of adrenaline, danger vitalizing his nerves and sharpening his senses. The concentration required to counter split-second moves as he waded through the shouting chaos, trying to aim for zero to minimal damage to himself.

He loved the messy, violent outpouring of pent-up energy he could never really get from sparring in gyms, with so many bodies recklessly throwing themselves—and other shit, like a fucking metal ashtray (he raised his arm in the last second so it wouldn't dent his head)—at each other in such a confined space.

But he had a goal, and even if he still stupidly enjoyed these kinds of brawls, he didn't like dragging them out too long. So he did his best to pull the guys away from each other, and knock out any unwise attacker with one or two well-aimed strikes. He quickly found Duhan in the center of the room and grabbed the back of his shirt collar to yank him away from the man he was beating down.

"Hey! Deputy Baek!" Inho barked, roughly shaking Duhan by the collar. "Help me stop the fight."

Duhan kicked the guy and, with a snarl, turned to obey.

It didn't take much longer for the chaos to subside.

Most of the men were laid out on the floor or table, swearing and groaning in pain, by the time Inho, Duhan, and Hansoo's guy pulled the rest off each other.

Tension permeated the air as Sangjun calmly stood up, toeing away the broken glass and food scattered across the polished black-tiled floor. He smiled stiffly at Hansoo and swept an uncaring glance over Hansoo's incapacitated men. "Let me move my boys to another room. Before we do any more damage."

"Make sure to properly discipline your pups," Hansoo sneered as Sangjun walked away and threw Duhan a nasty look, which the deputy returned with interest.

The room across the dark hallways was occupied, but one look at the disheveled gangsters had the occupants rushing out. Sangjun flicked on the lights and held the door open as the guys filed in. Inho entered last, closing the door behind him, and then—

A sharp _crack_ stung Inho's ears.

"Duhan-ah." Sangjun's expression was chilling, even by Inho's standards, and the calm lack of inflection in his voice dangerous. "Instead of trying to defuse the situation, you made it worse by jumping in like some rabid dog." Another merciless slap across the cheek. "Is that how my trusted deputy should behave?" Smack.

Like a good henchman, Duhan stood with his hands clasped behind him, keeping his head bowed and uttering no sound, while he dutifully took the blows and tried not to stagger too much under their force. Inho hadn't actively considered this aspect of Sangjun—the casual brutality, how easily he dished out the humiliating punishment. This remorselessly authoritarian persona wasn't one that he wore around the office or generally around civilized company, or even around Inho, but Sangjun looked undeniably in his element with this kind of...directness.

"You've been doing so well managing the club"—smack—"but you couldn't control yourself like the businessman you're supposed to act like." A final, calculated backhand, and Sangjun stepped back, running his hand through his hair. He coldly addressed both Duhan and Hongshik. "Do I have to interfere any more than I already do to micromanage your affairs? Do you think I want to waste my time on that shit? On reteaching you the fucking basics?"

Looking like a couple of kicked puppies, or repentant schoolboys, Duhan and Hongshik managed soft "no, Hyung-nim"s.

Sangjun got out his pack of smokes as he wordlessly considered his men for a moment, and when he pulled out a cigarette, Duhan very smoothly procured a lighter, stepping forward with a ready flame. Nervous silence stretched on as Sangjun took a long drag, and then he softly asked, "Why do you make me do this to you?"

Ah, the absolute disappointment in that voice...

Duhan's mouth pinched in contrition, his head tilting even lower. Some blood was dripping from his nose and his cheek was an alarming shade of red. He was a vicious fighter and—annoyingly enough to Hansoo, probably—hadn't taken a single hit to his face during the brawl. This would have to satisfy Hansoo, who seemed like the type of thug that enjoyed seeing visual proof of another's punishment.

After sharply signaled everyone to stay in the room, Sangjun stepped outside, and the air of miserable tension lessened as the door clicked shut.

Duhan sniffed wetly, swiping at his nose with the top of his hand, and then spit out some blood into an ashtray. He visibly took a few moments to control the pain as Hongshik mumbled an apology. When Inho offered him some napkins, he snatched them to wipe the blood off his face before he pinched his nose.

"I remember you saying that you weren't a dumbass, Mr. Baek."

"That asshole started it, I overheard." The words came out nasal, slightly slurred. "Fucking prick, shit-talking our Hyung-nim when they're in the same damn room, like he has _any_ right to, thinking himself all that just cause he's working for Hansoo! _Mr._ Song might have his own little operation and he might even have a few years on our Hyung-nim, but he's a fucking _cockroach_ that keeps forgetting his place!"

While he fumed, Duhan clenched his right fist so tightly that his knuckles seeped blood. Those were nasty cuts—from teeth, Inho noted. He'd been taken aback at Duhan's spirited response, but it was time for everyone to calm the fuck down. He went to nab an unopened bottle of soju from the table.

"He shouldn't forget that he'll  _always_  be indebted to Hyung-nim's family for getting him where he is now. But he's still a jealous, sniveling little bitch! At his age!" Duhan's impassioned words garnered grunts and murmurs of assent from the others. "And the  _crap_  he teaches his guys—"

"Rein in that hot head of yours," murmured Inho as he took Duhan's wrist.

Duhan instinctively tried to yank his hand away, but Inho's grip was firm as the alcohol was unceremoniously poured over the torn skin. "Just cause our Hyung-nim's been delegating more stuff to us"—he dropped his hand when Inho let go—"and he's smart enough to stop hanging around complete trash...fuck. That backstabbing rat Song Hansoo thinks he can just spread whatever shit he wants!"

Such a fervent show of loyalty...it was strangely endearing. "I know you're raring to finish that fight, Mr. Baek, but calm down," Inho soothed, offering the rest of the soju to Duhan, who grabbed the bottle and tipped it back without hesitating. "You were cautioned beforehand, yet your temper still got the better of you. You undermined your boss's authority. He shouldn't have to punish you after the fact, after the damage has been done."

"Yeah, hyung, I fucking  _know_  all that! I'm just..."—Duhan glowered at Hongshik—" _we're_  stupid sometimes. Instinct. Don't fucking lecture me like I'm a kid," he grumbled, "Our Hyung-nim's already disappointed in me..."

Inho snorted. "Don't sound so dejected, it's not the end of the world."

"He  _trusts_  me..." Duhan shot Inho a miserable look. "And tonight  _really_  wasn't the time for a fight. I should know better, I've been with him long enough..." He took another sip of soju. "I wasn't around during the height of his reputation, but our Hyung-nim was the most dangerous young fighter on the streets since his own father's glory days,  _and_  he's smart, too. Even when he was busy studying, he stood by his father to help keep our family together. It's thanks to him that we got real nice livelihoods, you know?" His eyes practically shined in worship, while the others threw out various agreements.

The were all so enamored that Inho could really only nod along, but it was nice to know that they had enough principles to know what gratitude meant. He supposed he could see the appeal, why they would follow Sangjun, who knew exactly how to deal with these kinds of guys. Loyalty, brute physical strength, unwavering authority...sure, their own little code.

It was already a long Saturday. Inho hadn't expected any excitement after dinner. He hadn't expected to find out just how strange a path it was that Sangjun walked. A brief lull, interrupted only by the soft tunes of the karaoke machine on standby, had settled over everyone, and his thoughts wandered into speculation.

So...Lee Sangjun was something of a little prince, was he? Inheriting enough legacy from his father that would let him exercise just enough iron-fisted authority when his hands were otherwise tied by his forays into 'respectable' business, which, in turn, had to be unachievable if his criminal record was  _too_  colorful. He'd apparently finished college too, but just how far could all of that take him, when (if) the chairman's patronage ended?

"That first punch," Hongshik muttered into the silence, "felt  _damn_  good."

"Yeah..." Duhan spoke up. "Yeah. Our Hyung-nim's not the type to hold a grudge," he snickered and winced when his grin pulled at the tender bruises on his face.

The room filled with laughter while Inho quietly observed the gangsters. The depth of their warm camaraderie was unmistakable. Even though these guys weren't his own, even if he didn't really want to mix with such people, he had to acknowledge the sincerity of their bonds.

"He went pretty easy though," Hongshik mused and grinned at Duhan. "Thanks for taking the heat."

"Oh, he was  _definitely_  in a lenient mood..." Duhan muttered as he shot Inho a look. "Fucking worth it. We even got to see the so-called tiger in action. I guess you live up to your reputation, hyung!"

"Don't be silly, Mr. Baek."

"Wait. Who are you again?" asked one of the guys Inho hadn't seen before today. He was short and stocky, and his face had an innocent softness to it, compared to all the muscle.

"Namgil, you moron," Duhan said without bite, "I told you he works with Mr. Kim."

"Ohhh! Mr. Choi. Hi. Sorry. It's just...Mr. Kim never really mingles, so why's Mr. Choi—why are you here? Shouldn't you be waiting in the car?"

"Well, _this_ hyung's got a taste for the unruly geondal lifestyle," Duhan joked.

"Where the fuck is Hyung-nim finding all these giants?" another guy spoke up in an abrasive tone. Janghyuk, Inho recalled, a spindly young man, half a head taller then Namgil. "Hardly anyone's as tall as him, but both Mr. Choi and Mr. Kim are like—...fucking hell."

"Some guys just have all the luck..."

"Ah shit. I got beer on my shirt."

"Bro, stop whining. How many have you ruined this week? Fight better if you wanna avoid that."

"You're practically married to the fucking dry cleaners. What kind of idiot are you anyway, dressing up like that when you knew we were meeting with Hansoo? Who the fuck were you trying to impress?"

"Appearances, man, they matter. We shouldn't dress like a couple of guttersnipes."

"Oi, the fuck're you implying?"

Inho distanced himself as the guys bantered easily, like they hadn't just been in a violent brawl minutes before. Well...they were desensitized to it, probably. And, despite the fact they all sported various bruises and cuts, they  _had_  fared a lot better than Hansoo's guys, which was honestly gratifying.

Ah. Now he was taking sides in a petty gang rivalry...this was no good...

The chatter immediately ceased when Sangjun reentered. The men straightened up, schooled their faces to solemn attention.

"Be grateful that Mr. Noh hasn't called the cops," Sangjun told the room. "Hansoo's still hanging around, so leave quietly or behave." To Duhan and Hongshik: "Deal with this mess. Properly. Civilly."

Both men bowed with a sharp, "Yes, Hyung-nim!"

"Don't follow me out," Sangjun coolly ordered, just as the guys stepped into formation to do just that, and Inho watched, faintly amused, as they fumbled to arrange themselves into a decent semicircle. 

"Good night, Hyung-nim!" they chorused, bowing in unison as Sangjun strode out.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: Art/sketch trade! From  **[somethingyesterday](http://somethingyesterday.tumblr.com)**!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- noraebang (노래방) = karaoke place, (lit.) "song room"  
> \- -ah/-yah (-아/-야) = a 'friendly'/'informal' suffix, attached to the end of someone's name when talking to/calling that person; only used if that person is the same age or younger than you, and if you're already familiar with them  
> \- hyung (형) = "elder brother"; also, often used by males to address (slightly) older males who aren't necessarily blood-related  
> \- geondal (건달) = "good-for-nothing" and/or "thug/gangster/mobster"; often used interchangeably with 'kkangpae'


	12. Inho recalls a shared memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho recalls a shared memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking the pattern of even-numbered smutty chapters (it's not easy to get into a smut-writing mood haha).

"You still have it."

"What?" Inho was too focused on the road to pay attention to what Sangjun suddenly wanted to talk about. They hadn't exchanged a word since exiting the noraebang—until now, after they'd escaped the brightly lit streets of the entertainment district that were still brimming with weekend carousers.

" _It_ —the spirit of the Tiger of Hyegwang."

"...No." Inho braked hard at a red light, frowning at the handful of cars puttering across the intersection. "No. We're not schoolboys anymore," he growled. "Stop bringing up that embarrassing shit."

"The mighty Choi Inho, admitting embarrassment?" Sangjun laughed softly, taking another sip from the bottle of soju he'd grabbed on his way out. "I couldn't believe it when I heard your name again. You were a local legend. You thrived on the attention, don't deny it."

"I'm not denying anything. But all of that was an age ago, my fifteen minutes of fame. It's meaningless." An adolescent reputation built largely on misbehavior was nothing to celebrate, especially not when it came back to bite him in the ass.

"Perhaps. Why the sudden modesty?"

Inho didn't bother answering.  _Why are you suddenly bringing up ancient history?_  

The light turned green and Inho stepped on the gas. He had to concede that this sounded like an exchange—in subject and tone and cadence—that he would have with any of his regular friends. And...he was feeling the urge to respond appropriately.

Well. It wouldn't hurt to indulge in a bit of harmless conversation.

"So," he began, somewhat awkward, but quickly got into the spirit, "You heard about me somewhere, saw a couple fights."

"Mh."

"That's really not enough to remember me."

There was a noticeable lag before Sangjun responded. "But it was. Didn't help that I never got to subdue the tiger myself."

Inho scoffed. "Not that you could have."

"I've never lost a fight."

"You're not the only one," Inho retorted. "But yeah, too late. The 'tiger' has long been declawed. I'm just a regular ajusshi now. Some things should remain in the past."

"Some things. You actually had something to show off, with your grand reputation."

"Uh huh. Such an honor to be remembered for my delinquency."

"Yeah...you were a beast..." Sangjun was _still_ holding onto the soju; even if his words sounded pretty steady, the fact that he was running his mouth with school-days crap was proof of his growing insobriety. "With an annoyingly infuriating face to go with it."

Inho glanced in the rearview mirror to see Sangjun looking back, nibbling on an unlit cigarette, and then returned his attention to the road. With a flippant, "You like my face," he made the turn into the garage of the apartment complex.

"...Mmh." The lighter clinked open, followed shortly by a sharp waft of burning tobacco.

A funny little thought occurred to Inho as he made his winding way deeper into the underground lot. "Ten plus years is a long time to carry a torch for me," he teased good-naturedly.

"Sure.  _You_  were the catalyst for my path into perversion."

"Hold on there. Don't blame me for  _that_  part," Inho responded with the same breezy sarcasm. "I don't want to be responsible for anyone's descent into that kind of lifestyle."

"And here I thought I was complimenting you. What—that kind of flattery doesn't inflate your ego?"

"Nope." ...Well...okay, maybe a _tiny_  bit...if Inho was dumb enough to think Sangjun was telling the truth.

Sangjun huffed in amusement and muttered, "I suppose, back then I didn't know what I wanted." He opened the door as soon as Inho parked the car.

Inho's neatly laid-out plan for the rest of the night was screwed because of Hansoo's shitty timing, but whatever. The day was almost done, and, if Inho were to be completely honest, talkative and well-behaved Sangjun wasn't such bad company. As they stood side-by-side, waiting in easy silence for the elevator, Sangjun finished his smoke and flicked the stub into the nearby trashcan. He spoke up again when the elevator was halfway up the building.

"You don't remember..."

"What are you going on about now?"

"We got into a fight once."

Inho raised an eyebrow. "Really."  _What the hell?_

"Your ignorance is fucking insulting."

The sullen tone made Inho chuckle. "You have to understand, back then I didn't have time for guys like you."

"Some things just don't change..."

Inho smirked, playing up the arrogance that Sangjun was no doubt referencing, as he tried to remember when and where they'd confronted each other. If they'd both grown up local, there was a decent probability they'd faced off, but three years of high school were a blur. He didn't think a week had ever passed without at least one tussle (although most of them were little more than blustering ego trips, only a few actually tipping over to fisticuffs), so it was impossible to distinguish between them without a starting point.

The elevator merrily dinged its stop. As Sanjun stepped out, he declared, "Summer of '76. I was a third-year, hanging out at the hillside cinema for—I don't even recall what film."

Story-time, was it? Listening placidly, Inho followed Sangjun into the apartment.

"Most of my school was attending the premiere. It was one of those noisy neighborhood events. Why I bothered to go out that day, I don't know. You bumped into me, made me drop my ice cream. The expression on your face was just so—...I had to pick a fight."

"Fair enough." At that vibrant age, during those years when sweets were a true luxury, spilled ice cream was a legitimate source of anger. "I didn't apologize?"

"No. You were too preoccupied with presenting a target, strutting around my turf like you owned it. Anyway, I wouldn't have accepted an apology that didn't end up with you groveling on your knees."

"And that was never an option." Inho's adolescent pride would never have tolerated his kneeling in front of any boy.

"Of course not."

Inho headed for the laundry room. Gathering the sheets from the dryer in silence, he pieced together bits of that day. A muggy Friday afternoon. Classes had just been let out, and practically the entire student body in the neighborhood had clamored in the streets, waiting in front of either one of the two major (and then-newly renovated) cinemas. It was impossible to forget those massive, boisterous outings.

On that particular day, instead of sticking with the theater closer to home and school, Inho had decided to make the one-kilometer trek north, maybe curious to see if rumors of its better facilities were true but most likely spoiling for a fight. There had been enough petty fighting within his school—even if most times the students were caught and received additional beatings from the teachers. Inter-school rivalries were another option to shake up the tedium and stifling restrictions of student life. Speaking of which...

"You're a Myungnam alum?" Inho asked as he entered the bedroom, arms full of fluffy, still-warm sheets. With a reputation as west Busan's best public school, Myungnam High School was a twenty-minute walk from Inho's own Hyegwang HS.

"I am. Is that so hard to believe?"

Surprising he actually made it through third year, but, "No, I can see it." Inho dumped the pile on the bed before noticing the bottle on the table, watched as Sangjun tipped back a glass of liquor.

"I'd heard of the Tiger before, but that was the first time interacting with you. A goddamn giant, then and now."

"I always felt kind of bad for having that advantage," Inho supplied as he folded up a bedsheet. "Never seemed like much of an accomplishment, beating up some poor string bean that barely reached my chin."

By the time he'd started high school, Inho had towered over the majority of adult men. He'd been amused at the little squirt who'd brazenly called him out and then had the gall to shove him right after. He'd even let himself be pushed around for a bit before retaliating...he paused. He lifted his head, gaze drifting over to the neat sweep of Sangjun's hair.

Maybe he hadn't been able to remember Sangjun until now because the guy had looked so much more like a delinquent back then, with unruly attire and hair cropped so close to his scalp—much shorter than school-regulation length—that the freshly stitched gash running up the side of his head had been visible. That injury was actually the clearest feature Inho remembered... "Looks like you hit a late growth spurt," he commented as he returned to his task. How much had the scar faded?

"Luckily. I was never short by any means, but..."

"It's a nice advantage."

"Mmh. We went far beyond drawing first blood. It was like you had no idea who you'd run into. Like you wanted to get into _real_ trouble and not some safe little tussle."

"Well, I didn't exactly keep track of the local hoodlums. Most of you types are middle school dropouts."

Sangjun snorted. "And you're the type to just breeze through life. Old money, the precious son of Chungmudong's merchant lord..."

It was funny how local reputations could endure and even blow out of proportion with the times. Inho recognized that his family's influence was nothing to scoff at, and he readily acknowledged his fortunes: wealth, his yangban lineage and the connections that fostered, his mother's charity work in the neighborhood, and above all the rock-solid credibility his father had meticulously established in business circles during the rapidly developing post-war decades.

"Choi Inho... You were a rather popular figure around town, knew all the shit you could get away with. You didn't care what kind of trouble you stirred, did you?" The accusation sounded matter-of-fact, contemplative rather than condemning.

"Give me _some_ credit. I've always known when to reign it back."

"I don't think you did, that day. Wouldn't really know. You had two guys with you. They didn't do much while you wiped the floor with all three of mine, and then we got really into it. At some point, I managed to kick you into a display case, but you shook it off like some demon possessed."

Inho remembered. The raucous crowd forming a ring around the fight, yelling encouragement and insults. Sweat blurring his vision, adrenaline sharpening his surroundings and ruthlessly cutting through the tranquilizing summer humidity. The impact nearly knocking the wind out of him, boot-shaped pain radiating from the center of his abdomen as he'd jumped to his feet to finish the fight. Blood dripping in his eyes. Getting mobbed by Myungnam students...? And then, later, the stinging pain of getting more stitches than he'd wanted. He could feel those physical sensations with such clarity because fights between school-aged boys were rarely so serious.

"In all my eighteen years, I didn't think I'd seen anyone embody such grace in what should have been a messy brawl. I must have been distracted, when you landed a beautiful roundhouse kick—perfect form..." Sangjun trailed off and smiled briefly. "I was sloppy, letting that kick fracture my arm. Not my first broken bone but still, hurt like a bitch...and I had to wear a damn cast for weeks." He sounded so disgusted, and Inho empathized because the itch was a form of torture. "We never got the chance to conclude our match."

"Thankfully for you." Both of them had been dragged apart by policemen. They must have let Inho off with only a light slap on the hand; he couldn't recall if he'd ever gotten a suspension from school for that episode. "You wouldn't have lasted much longer. I'd have made sure, in the next several minutes, that you couldn't get up. If you'd surrendered—"

"Never an option," Sangjun dryly echoed Inho's earlier words. "We'll never know how that would've ended."

"Oh, the conclusion was obvious."

"Don't be so certain. We were different breeds of toughness."

"Fights like that take a lot of stamina. You looked pretty stringy, I would've outlasted you. And...it's not as though you would've pulled a knife on me."

Sangjun shook his head, faint contempt twisting his mouth. "Knives don't belong in a disagreement between a couple of students."

 _How goddamn honorable of you_ , Inho thought, cynical—and yet he couldn't help but also feel begrudging approval. Remembering those hazy school days, reliving their naivety as kindred spirits with similar experiences...it felt like some kind of progress. While he reflected on his youth with some regret, the nostalgia was undeniable. He'd lived with such reckless abandon, he'd felt invincible, fueled by limitless energy and fearing very little, and that fight had been one of many hotheaded displays of teenage masculinity.

"After that, I didn't really see you around, except when you got involved in a couple of turf wars. You must've had a death wish, I thought, but both times you disappeared before things got really fucked."

Inho glanced away. "I was a stupid brat."

"You're still a brat."

"Says the crap-stained mutt..."

Sangjun chuckled. "At least you had the wits to get out before any serious escalation." Which usually involved the fatal use of weapons such as fish knives and iron bars, running counter to the idealism of raw, time-honored fistfights.

It hadn't been wits, so much as sheer dumb luck. For a very short while in his third year, Inho had made a dangerous habit of wandering the streets, during the days he'd skipped school and the nights when he'd felt restless and overconfident, eager to chase after the addicting rush of violence. He'd instigated fights in front of bars, pushed drunk shouting matches into brawls, messed with gangsters. Stupidity at its finest. But Inho was a maknae, granted the most freedom from obligations, and as long as he didn't get into anything _too_ questionable and returned home in one piece, no one had cared how he behaved himself. Schoolyard competitions to determine superiority were fun, but they usually didn't get so far as breaking limbs or causing serious internal trauma (which were grounds for expulsion or a rap sheet), and he'd secured his reputation in school by his second year, rarely fielding challenges afterwards. It was probably the stagnation from the wary, mutual nonaggression between his peers had fueled his insanity. Teenage ego, unbridled energy, elevated status as a beloved son of a high-standing family...a potent recipe for recklessness. Yeah, it was pure luck that he hadn't been stabbed or otherwise maimed for life.

"You...really don't belong in stinking alleyways or darkened corners of the city. The dirty underworld is too far beneath you."

"We've played and fought and bled on the same dusty streets." Inho wasn't a gangster, nor had he been poor, but they'd both grown up in the same damn city. Covered in the harbor's brine and thick exhaust of old clanking trucks, in the smell of smoked fish and sweet potatoes; surrounded by the grime and dogged hustle of people pushing on. In those years, in those neighborhoods with their packed markets and unpaved roads, you brushed shoulders with beggars and entrepreneurs and refugees alike.

"But the way we saw our world was fundamentally different," Sangjun pointed out. "I was born a geondal. My grandfather used his fists to keep the streets 'clean', my father carried on that legacy, for a while. Called themselves _freedom fighters_ ," he huffed wryly.

Inho smiled briefly. The era of an underworld that helped breed patriotic rebels, noble fist-fighters who fought for the little people and pushed back against the encroachment of yakuza during the occupation, had died out during the post-war recovery. But the romanticism had lingered, had still captured the admiration of boys like Inho, with the ideals of loyalty and justice, of never backing down, of fighting for pride and for the good of the nation.

"My father's had a decent run, but regimes change. Do you know just how tenuous the distinctions are, between common criminals and those who are paid to serve the people? I grew up witnessing political thuggery, participating in the violent manifestations of internal corruption and power plays. A fucking mess of radical factions, backstabbers, dirty politicians and civil servants. Fighting was for survival, even for killing, but it's a job like any other and damn lucrative, and a son must support his father, right? But you are a merchant yangban family's treasured son, with your silver spoon and your high-bred morals and the illusion of distance between you and all that sordid business. To you, fighting is merely a sport. You have no idea what it means to really get your hands dirty."

Inho glanced up to see that Sangjun was wearing a little smile, which seemed completely at odds with his sudden rant. Corruption was a fact of life and, while Inho might be a merchant's son with no political leanings, he'd lived through the same turmoil of the 60s and 70s. He didn't feel the need to justify himself; each person made do with the fortunes he was dealt...and he felt a stab of wonder as he imagined Sangjun succeeding despite all the forces working against him.

"I'm glad you wised up quickly, because I—" Sangjun interrupted himself, and then averted his gaze with a sigh. "You have guts and skill, but you wouldn't have survived the worst. You don't have the ruthlessness to do what's needed."

'What's needed'...

Inho also looked away, smoothing his palm over the last, neatly folded bedsheet. Indeed. Such savagery didn't belong in civilized society. There was a vast chasm between fighting for the thrill and fighting to kill. Self-defense was one thing, but well-adjusted people did not otherwise cross that divide...not even in the heat of the moment...yeah. So he didn't really know how it felt to be so cornered, so desperate, that he would ever devolve into—

Fuck. He didn't want to think about that kind of morbid shit.

Wordlessly, he picked up the pile to put them away. He took his time in the closet, not looking forward to whatever weird topic Sangjun might bring up. He could just leave for the night, but Sangjun wasn't drunk enough to not put up a fuss...

The moment Inho turned off the closet lights, Sangjun asked, "Why were you working in that shop?"

A much safer topic, but, "Stupid question."

"You can do better. _Should_ be doing better."

"And not experience the pleasure of meeting you?" Inho asked sarcastically, leaning against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest. "There's something to be said about a quiet, ordinary life."

"A quiet life isn't for you."

"Is that so."

"Where's your ambition?"

"Now you decide to give a damn about what I could be doing with my life if you hadn't interrupted it."

Sangjun's face was unreadable as he quietly held Inho's gaze. And why the hell were they discussing this? Why did Sangjun even care? What, exactly, did he want...?

"This is a delightful conversation," Inho spoke into the short silence between them, "but it doesn't seem quite appropriate between you and I."

"Then when is it appropriate?"

"I don't know. Over drinks, between friends."

"...'Friends', you say."

"Which we aren't..."

Inho vacillated as he watched the subtle shifts in Sangjun's expressions. On the one hand, Sangjun was still a self-professed gangster, and still kind of a depraved bastard. On the other, it was becoming so much easier for Inho to relax his guard, and he didn't enjoy complications when it came to human relations, and...fine, Sangjun did have a few commendable principles...

Ah, what the hell.

Inho made an abrupt decision (he was making a whole lot of those today), heading for the liquor cabinet because he felt too sober for this.

"However. There's not much stopping us from acting like carefree youngsters again." Inho stared blankly at the neat array of bottles. It was a good idea to communicate, to clarify things so that all parties were on the same wavelength. "And friendships between boys are built on less than what we share."

Age, hometown, reputations, the memory of an exhilarating fight—they were more than enough of a common foundation. It was straightforward and simple, it was the Way Things Were in this town. The fucking? Now, that...wasn't _completely_ out of place either, if Inho were to be consistent, except for the one detail that he was slowly getting over.

"Friend...hm. Has a nice ring to it." Inho could actually imagine a world where they could've befriended each other without all this questionable shit. He nodded to himself, grabbing a glass, and blew out an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh as he turned back to face Sangjun. "So, to make this work, I will magnanimously overlook your initial shitty attitude and trust that you're a man of your word."

Sangjun didn't respond immediately, looking highly skeptical with his solemn half-frown. Undeterred, Inho placed the empty glass on the table with a decisive clack and sat down in the remaining chair.

"Lee Sangjun, accept my generosity," Inho bulldozed through, because he had to finish what he started. "And try to act a little less like a thug when we're fucking, you did a passable job earlier. That way, we'll both have a more pleasant time." He held out a hand in appeasement.

"Still deciding things for me..." Sangjun took it. "You've really taken my words to heart, mm?"

Inho played along as the rather weak handshake turned into hand-holding. "Well," _you could try telling me to stop if that bothers you_ , "us Busan guys are more than comfortable with asserting ourselves, aren't we?"

"Hn." Sangjun was looking at the back of Inho's hand, rubbing his thumb over and over the skin. "I think you're overdoing it."

"And I think you don't mind."

There was warmth in Sangjun's eyes when he lifted them. He pulled Inho's hand to ghost a kiss over the knuckles. "So easily applying labels..." he murmured, lips brushing skin with each syllable.

Without thinking, Inho lifted his little finger, grazed Sangjun's cheek.

"...What if I don't want your friendship?"

"Should I care what you want?"

"Hmm."

"Used to be, you know, that guys thought it a _huge_  honor," Inho joked, "when they could call Hyegwang's Tiger a friend."

They were talking in hushed tones for some reason, and Sangjun had a very, very honest smile on his face, both of which lent the atmosphere an odd and almost unbearably awkward tenderness...

Inho jerked his hand out of the warm grip, splintering the moment, and reached for the half-filled bottle on the table. "For the record," he said in a normal conversational volume, squinting as he deciphered the fancy English script on the label, "I consider all the people, the women, I have sex with, as friends." He poured a small amount of the whisky for both of them. "I'm done overthinking us, and I won't change the way I deal with these kinds of relations just because of what you are—or, well, aren't."

"You have some strange ideas," Sangjun remarked as he picked up his own refill.

"No stranger than your preferences, or viewing sex as a commodity to be traded for cash between strangers." Inho took a sip of the whisky and savored the rich taste for a few moments before swallowing. "Why go through the trouble of screwing around with me when you can easily hit up some hookers?"

"I don't want them."

Inho snorted. "Like you can afford to be so picky."

"I already have what I want."

"Oi..." Inho sighed, "Aren't you bored with me yet?"

"No."

"Why. You said it yourself—I'm no fun at all." Inho didn't hesitate to test Sangjun's boundaries, because as far as he was concerned, he still had the green light. Did the guy have any limits before he attempted something drastic? It wasn't a safe game but, when all was said and done, Inho _did_ have some powerful safeguards...and he wasn't always good at denying the thrill of playing with dangerous animals. "Whatever your other partners let you do, there is not enough money in the world to make me want to indulge more of your weird power-tripping shit."

A frown wrinkled Sangjun's brow. "It's...not so much that—I'm not—..."

Inho watched Sangjun, whose eyes were fixed downward on his glass. "You're not what? Uncertainty doesn't suit you." Though it could probably be attributed to the alcohol. "Here's an idea. Get yourself an actual boyfriend. Collect some young, pretty, obedient playthings to entertain you on the side. Spread the love, as wise Mr. Hwang put it so delicately. Mr. Yu told me some bullshit about you not being into prostitutes, but if that's true...man, you've got a problem because I'm not sure that _isn't_ some kind of illness for a geondal...but he says he's got a few boys. A few bills and I bet they'd fucking _love_ to play your perverted games. You must have met some of them, you gotta like at least—"

"When you latch on to some shitty notion, you don't fucking shut up about it, do you?"

"I'll shut up eventually, don't fret. Even I get tired of hearing my voice." He finished off his glass and stood up. "And that—is right now."

"Wait, Inho. Slow the fuck down and sit."

Inho paused. Sangjun was obviously buzzed, because despite his valiant effort to sound firm, there was an unmistakable note of melancholy in that demand.

A moment of weakness; just one of many little openings that Inho was getting used to. One second of hesitation felt like too long as he wondered why the man couldn't just call up his other friends to chat with—someone who wasn't a subordinate, or an elder, or a trashy rival. He sat down slowly and then reached for the whisky, even though he knew he shouldn't be drinking because he needed to haul the car back to his place, but just as his fingers grazed the label, the bottle was tugged away.

He watched Sangjun's hands as they poured him a glass, and he accepted the gesture for what it was. Make the effort to be friends...right. "Take your elders' advice. Go on a couple blind dates. Visit some of Mr. Yu's guys. I'll be happy to escort you and your squeeze wherever, do the job you're actually paying me for."

"I'm not just paying you to be my chauffeur."

Yeah, obviously. Inho hadn't forgotten that was just a part of the cover. "I promise you, Lee Sangjun, that you'll get sick of me soon enough." His nails clinked against the glass as he fiddled with it.

Sangjun didn't say anything as he leaned his chin on his knuckles, a drunk-looking smile lighting up his face.

Inho blithely plowed through, ignoring how off-kilter he felt at that constant openness. " _I_  would definitely want some variety."

"Spoken like a true player." Sangjun's glassy eyes were bright with humor.

"Makes life sweet. It's fun to meet different ladies, all of them beautiful in their own ways, in light, flirty settings."

"'Light'..." Sangjun's expression wavered between horror and warm amusement. "Inho. Have you never been on a blind date? With marriage on the table, it's more stressful than a meeting with the board of directors."

"Surely you exaggerate...though I suppose you being uninterested in women doesn't help. So balance out obligation with something fun, like assembling a harem of pretty boys."

Sangjun rolled his eyes. "Aren't you the one pushing for discretion?"

"Discretion where _I'm_ involved. I don't care what you do with other men."

"...You really don't, do you."

"It would be quite hypocritical if I did."

Sangjun leaned back into his chair, eyes cast down as he reached for his cigarettes. They sat wordlessly for a few minutes, and several times Inho wanted to ask for a cigarette, curious about the taste of it mingling with the whisky...but each time he stopped himself.

Inho finished his drink after Sangjun lit his second cig. Recalling last week's run-in with Chairman Jeon, he asked, "Am I needed tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I need to accompany Chairman Jeon to the airport, to fetch Seunghwan—his youngest son. Much as I don't want you in the Chairman's cross-hairs any time soon, you're going to be our driver. You should...try to stay invisible."

"Mh, I don't need you to tell me that. I wouldn't want to annoy him anyway. He seems a rather possessive man."

"You just surprised him."

 _Yeah,_ Inho thought wryly, _I'm sure I was an unwelcome interruption._

"He insists I have personal security, utterly pointless as that is," Sangjun grumbled almost inaudibly. "Likes to vet my choices."

"Keeping an eye on his assets, huh?"

"Nothing like that."

"If you say so." Inho suddenly felt tired. It was time to wrap up this too-long day.

The short column of ash flared red as Sangjun took a long drag, and he blew out the smoke as Inho stood up. Holding the cigarette between his index finger and thumb, he looked relaxed and confident and yet...the particular way he was looking up at Inho...

Like a goddamn open book. The desire was meant to be read, begging to be sated, and the light buzz of alcohol made Inho feel generous. He took the few lazy steps to close the distance, and then, gently holding Sangjun's chin, murmured, "Since you've been surprisingly well-behaved..." as he bent down for the kiss.

He hummed at the first taste of tobacco on his tongue. And Sangjun was being so responsive, wasn't trying anything sneaky, so Inho took his time exploring the flavor, drawing out those soft, sighing noises that sounded lovely from, really, anyone, regardless of gender...

Yes. It was a simple duty that he had, and not an unpleasant one either.

But this was enough.

The day had been packed with a little too much excitement for Inho to want to keep going at it for much longer. With a few no-nonsense pats on Sangjun's shoulder, he drew back and then went to work, pointedly resealing and stashing away the bottle, picking up his glass to take to the sink.

"Don't drink by yourself for too long."

Sangjun sat motionless, looking slightly rumpled and inordinately cheerful, the cigarette between his fingers burned down to the filter.

"Mhmm, that silly grin on your face tells me you should call it a night."

"Okay."

Inho nodded, amused, and turned to leave. "I'll be around before noon."

"Good night, Inho..."

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: A pointless, unrelated doodle. Inho and Sangjun both enlisted for mandatory military service in the late 70s. Sangjun entered the ROK Army (대한민국 육군) straight out of high school, while Inho, after completing his 1st year of college, joined the ROK Marines (대한민국 해병대).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know 60k words isn't a lot, but I'm kind of proud that I've been able to stick with _any_ writing project for this long. Gives me hope that I might actually be able to complete it...
> 
>  **Translations & Notes**  
> \- noraebang (노래방) = karaoke place, (lit.) "song room"  
> \- geondal (건달) = "thug/gangster/mobster" and used interchangeably with 'kkangpae'  
> \- ajusshi (아저씨) = "middle-aged man"; "mister" (casual way to address men, often strangers, much older than you)  
> \- Chungmudong (충무동) = Chungmu (충무) neighborhood (동) in Seo-gu; borders the largest central business district in Jung-gu (중구, Central District)  
> \- maknae (막내) = the youngest in age among siblings, among a group, etc.  
> \- yangban (양반) = the upper classes/nobility/aristocracy of old, pre-Japanese occupation, Korea  
> "Says the crap-stained mutt..." refers to a Korean version of 'pot calling the kettle black'. The full idiom is 똥 묻은 개가 겨 묻은 개 나무란다, or: The dung-stained dog reproaches the chaff-stained dog.


	13. Inho spends time with friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho spends some time with friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a totally indulgent, slice-of-life chapter :x

"Heyyy! Is that Lee Sangjun?!"

Sangjun smiled. "Jeon Seunghwan."

Jeon Seunghwan looked like a younger version of Chairman Jeon, but unlike his father, he was louder, flashier, less refined. His shirtsleeves were rolled up while his jacket was tossed carelessly over his suitcase. His ruffled wavy hair was dyed a startling blond-brown; Inho could see the subtle disapproval in the Chairman's lingering gaze. Seunghwan didn't notice, his grin blinding as he strode, arms spread wide, up to Sangjun. The two men embraced—a brotherly greeting between friends—and Seunghwan gave Sangjun's back a few enthusiastic slaps before stepping away, turning to acknowledge the Chairman in a much more subdued manner, with a bow of his head and a simple, "Hello, Father."

"Welcome back, Seunghwan. How was New York?"

"Very...instructional." Seunghwan pocketed his hands as Sangjun gathered his suitcase. "I didn't know you were in Busan."

"I had unexpected business here, but fortuitous timing." The Chairman smiled (which, to Inho, didn't look too warm an expression). "I wanted to see you before I head back to Seoul tonight."

"How thoughtful of you, Father."

"You must be tired from the flight. Go home and rest. We're having dinner in a few hours."

"...Sure."

Chairman Jeon parted ways with them, accompanied by his own personal assistant, and Inho felt some tension leaving him because, during the drive to the airport, he hadn't been able to ignore the feeling that the Chairman kept _noticing_ him. Wordlessly he took Seunghwan's suitcase from Sangjun and, giving the two men their space, led the way to their own car.

"Ugh I fucking hate the way he dictates my life..." Seunghwan groused after settling in the backseat.

Inho started the car as Sangjun said, bluntly, "You're old enough to know better. Be a responsible son if you don't want that kind of attention."

Seunghwan snorted. "I don't understand why you still enjoy working for him...and now you're going to work for another Jeon. My old man's making me run things here, he told you that, right?"

"Yes."

"Of course. He's real tight with you. Sometimes I think he wishes you were his son. Hah. Executive director...a long time coming. I guess this is his way of forgiving me."

"You're going to have to work for it."

"Sure I am," Seunghwan muttered and then said, in a sarcastically chipper voice, "Let's do some _great_ work together!"

"Uh huh." Sangjun conveyed a whole lot of doubt and dismissive indifference in that simple response.

There was a noticeable pause in the conversation, before Seunghwan said, in a serious voice, "Hey. Jun. I'm not completely useless."

"I know that."

"Though it's still just a title."

"Which comes with a basic set of duties." Sangjun barely tiptoed the edge of formality used for hyungs. "Don't fuck up this time."

"Watch your tone there, Jun. You still forget your place."

A long, heavy silence.

Leather creaked as Seunghwan fidgeted and then, laughing a bit, joked, "Whoa, whoa—dial it down, Director Lee, you're gonna make me piss my pants." He shifted gears, letting out a gusty sigh. "Fucking international flights. No one should be stuck in the air for so long. Hey," he addressed Inho, tapping at the headrest, "make a right at the next intersection—"

"Your father wants you to rest. You _are_ having dinner with him later."

"I'll take a _rest_  wherever I want."

"Stick to the itinerary, Mr. Choi," Sangjun said impassively.

"Come on, Jun, don't be stingy."

"You were sent away because of this problem."

"Father is dumber than I thought if six months of exile was supposed to _fix_  me."

"Jeon Seunghwan, I'm not going against the Chairman's wishes for you, not again." And then, "Stop pouting."

"Fuck...I can't believe the geezer is making you my _nanny_. Then again, he makes you do all kinds of grunt work, doesn't he? You didn't rise so quickly to managing director because of your illustrious CV or impeccable background."

That pointedly thrown comment raised Inho's eyebrows. Sangjun didn't say anything or, when Inho glanced at his face in the rearview mirror, seem at all fazed and instead started flipping through several files from his briefcase. Inho returned his attention to the road.

Realizing that he was being ignored, Seunghwan crossed his arms over his chest, huffing peevishly. The rest of the car ride was peaceful though, after he dozed off.

Inho stopped at Seunghwan's apartment and, gathering the luggage, he followed as Sangjun shepherded his groggy friend into the building. The place was spacious and sterile, reminiscent of Sangjun's apartment; it must have been cleaned by housekeepers earlier. He set the suitcase in the living room and waited by the entryway, only half paying attention to Seunghwan's grumblings.

"Wash up, take a nap," said Sangjun. "I'll come back for you in a couple hours."

"Yeah, yeah," came the muffled voice.

For a few minutes, Sangjun stood at the doorway of Seunghwan's bedroom before softly closing the door. He headed for the sink, took out a mug from the overhead cabinet, and, after filling it with water, chugged it down. Inho quietly watched.

"He's knocked out." Sangjun gazed into the mug. "Eighteen-hour flight...if I know him, he hasn't slept too well."

Inho smiled slightly. "So, Director Lee, you're a glorified babysitter."

"Only for a short while, Mr. Choi."

"What will you do for the next two hours?"

"We're on Seunghwan's schedule today." Sangjun's steps were measured and intent as he approached Inho. "Maybe," he murmured, "I'll watch some television. I haven't done that in a while..." He brushed his palms up the lapels of Inho's suit jacket before grasping them, leaned in, tilting his head up just so...

"Be careful, Lee Sangjun," Inho whispered, darting a glance at the closed bedroom door before soft lips pressed against his.

It was one of those lazy kisses that didn't lead to anything more involved. So, for just a daring few moments, Inho gave in. Sangjun wasn't too heated up either, but he also didn't seem very willing to break away...

A soft sigh against Inho's mouth, and then Sangjun reached into Inho's pocket. "Let's go for a drive," he said, car key dangling from his finger as he headed out.

Sangjun was a calm presence at the wheel as they coasted along the seaside road. With the windows open to let in the breeze and the radio tuned to a news station, Inho felt utterly relaxed, felt a simple joy in being able to admire the clear expanse of the East Sea. At a bench by the hiking trail that followed the road, under the mottled shadows of a copse of trees, Sangjun paused for a smoke break. After, they stopped at a seaside cafe, and because it really was too lovely a day, cloudless and temperate, to waste indoors or stuffed in a car, Inho didn't think anything of it.

It finally occurred to him while he sipped his coffee—he thought of just how strange this whole scene was. His cup clattered discontentedly as he set it down and glanced at Sangjun, who was lounging in his chair, cigarette dangling from his lips, legs crossed, newspaper in his hands. He looked like any young businessman, polished and handsome and exuding an aura of purposeful ease, even if he was just sitting with a friend (in comfortable silence since neither of them felt the need to fill the space between them with inconsequential words). Inho hadn't felt anything off about that fact. So what was putting him on edge now...?

They were at one of the quaint outdoor patio tables that offered an unobstructed view of the sea. Inho took in the rest of the environment again: the few other customers and their low conversations, blossoming shrubs and the dark wood of the patio, the decorative trees and the tinkling music and the waves lapping gently against the rocky beach below and—

 _Don't think too deeply about it_ , Inho reminded himself,  _Enjoy the respite for what it is._ He reached for Sangjun's pack of cigarettes and filched one, lighting it as he stood up, glimpsing the eyes following his movements before he turned away to go for a walk on the beach, undisturbed.

He returned before his cigarette burned down to a stub, to the amusing scene that was Sangjun politely fielding the friendly advances of a trio of well-dressed ladies who'd decided to join their tables. He strode up the wooden steps, smiling readily for the women who, thankfully, appeared happy about his presence. "Bold, ladies, very bold, to keep my friend company," he teased as he stood behind said 'friend', leaning over to discard the filter in the ashtray before clasping Sangjun's not-quite-relaxed shoulders. "Has he been nice to you?"

"Of course!" One of them replied, very prettily. "Though he doesn't talk much, does he?" _But he is gorgeous so I suppose it doesn't matter_. Her thoughts were quite clear, from the way her mascaraed lashes fluttered as she swept her smiling gaze over Sangjun's face and body. She extended a pale, delicate hand for Inho to shake, and they all exchanged names and small-talk and light laughter over coffee. Inho sensed the occasional glances from Sangjun (which was the sad extent of his participation).

The pleasant conversation went on until the newspaper snapped, crinkled loudly as Sangjun folded it.

Inho glanced at his watch. "Ah, sorry ladies." The time had flown by so quickly. "We have to get going," he said, while Sangjun snuffed out his cigarette and they both stood up. "Thank you for your delightful company."

Sangjun dipped his head, smiling politely as he said, "Enjoy the rest of your day."

He drove them back, and then left Inho in the car to fetch Seunghwan, which took half an hour. The man looked neither happy nor very awake as he slammed the car door closed, but the drive to dinner was quiet as he tried to catch up on some more sleep.

At Mi Hyang, toward the more private end of the building, Inho stood in the corner of the dining room by the closed doors. The Chairman's own personal assistant stood across the frame. Looming over the threshold like twin guards...Inho felt completely useless as he listened to the conversation of the three VIPs. Mostly hammering out the details of Seunghwan's duties and the impositions that would place on Sangjun.

But soon enough, the Chairman had to leave for the train to Seoul, and the atmosphere became noticeably relaxed. The tightness in Seunghwan's demeanor melted away, and he stared openly at Mirim.

"Now that the old man is gone...who's the pretty face?"

"Her name is Mirim—"

"Mirim! What a beautiful name! Come, come!" Seunghwan patted the space beside him. "Let that other girl play the instrument and sit with me!"

Sangjun drawled, "That's not her job, Seunghwan," even as Mirim, ever the perfect hostess, obliged.

"Che, I don't think it's your place to lecture me about that." Seunghwan watched as Mirim sat down with perfect grace. "Such a lovely creature," he murmured. "Ahh, but I see you—you got your eye on—what's his name again?"

Inho darted a glance at Sangjun, who hesitated for a second before answering, "Mr. Choi. He works with Mr. Kim."

"Uh huh. And he's here why?"

"Decoration," Sangjun muttered behind his cup.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Seunghwan pulled Mirim close to his side. "Mirim here..."

Mirim wore a professional smile as she humored Seunghwan's drunken nuzzling against her neck. Inho twitched a smile at her—and her eyes sparkled as she returned his look—before he caught Sangjun staring intently at him.

"She can't take her eyes off Mr. Choi," Seunghwan slurred, cutting a look at Inho. "It's making me jealous."

Sangjun knocked back his drink. "Show some class, Director Jeon," he practically growled, "and stop pawing at her. This isn't a brothel."

"And so I'm wondering why the fuck you brought me here." Seunghwan pushed Mirim away and leaned back on his hands. "This place is too damn stuffy, we're not living in the fucking Joseon Dynasty. It's boring when I can't do this or that shit with the girls."

"You came here to have dinner with your father and enjoy some nice music. Now we can catch up."

"We can do that someplace else." Seunghwan teetered as he stood up. "Still got the whole night ahead of us."

Sangjun didn't protest at all as he also got up to leave. He gave Mirim a clipped, unsmiling nod, and he seemed rather forceful as he slid open the door for Seunghwan. Mirim bowed them out, her expression a neutral yet pretty smile, and trailed alongside Inho, who followed his charges at a private distance.

"Mr. Inho." Mirim's soft voice was barely audible over the muffled laughter and music leaking from the rooms they passed.

Inho smiled as he briefly turned his head in acknowledgement. "Ms. Mirim."

"Call me?" She surreptitiously held out a folded silk handkerchief, her steps unfaltering. "Not as a client," she murmured as Inho took the fabric, "but as a...a friend. Someone I can destress with." Her light touch up his knuckles was an invitation. "You seem like the type."

"'Friends'..." Gaze still focused on Sangjun's back, Inho rubbed his thumb over the stitches along the edge of the silk. "After only two meetings, Ms. Mirim...you're quite daring."

"Comes with the job," she responded playfully. "Is it too improper?"

"No, this is perfect." Grinning outright, Inho pocketed the handkerchief. "You read me correctly. I'll take you up on your offer, Ms. Mirim."

They paused at the threshold of the building's main entrance and Mirim stood on tiptoes to cup a hand against Inho's ear. Her smiling tone was less manufactured, less formal, as she whispered, "My name is Jang Hyejin," and then, as if they hadn't just agreed to become sex friends, she stepped away with a graceful curtsy. "Good night, Mr. Inho."

* * *

Monday afternoon, Inho had the pleasure of seeing a still-hungover Sangjun at work, and in the evening, of driving Sangjun and Seunghwan to a meeting with one of the company's board members. Afterwards, Seunghwan decided to go out for drinks with several friends, dragging Sangjun to the gathering. Inho waited with a book, until a few hours later when Sangjun emerged alone from the club. At Inho's query, Sangjun slurred, "Forget about him," and leaned heavily against Inho's shoulder.

So Inho hauled Sangjun home. And, in the relative privacy of the elevator, he allowed a few seconds of handsy groping.

"I'm gonna miss you, Inho," Sangjun muttered into Inho's shoulder as Inho unlocked the door.

"...It's only two days."

Inho stood by, ready to catch Sangjun, who swayed dangerously as he tugged off his shoes. Once they both were shoeless and inside, Sangjun began talking again. "Two days can feel like—like a goddamn eternity...y'should change your schedule around, talk to Hyechul."

As if. "We see each other way too much already." The decision was Sangjun's anyway, but then again, logic wasn't really a drunk man's forte.

"Not nearly enough," Sangjun sighed, arm tightening around Inho's waist...

Which made Inho wonder abruptly why there hadn't been any more attempts to cop a feel. "Your manners have improved considerably over a span of minutes."

"Mmmaybe," Sangjun whispered, sounding like the epitome of a stupid-happy drunk.

Inho couldn't help his snort of laughter. "What are you up to?"

"I noticed...Inho, I noticed you have a thing for—uh, for politeness."

"How observant of you."

"So how'm I doing, Inho? Good?"

...Well. Inho arched an eyebrow at Sangjun, who was looking at him with an earnestness that deserved _something_...

With an indulgent, "Yeah, sure, here's your reward," Inho kissed the corner of Sangjun's mouth before resuming their trek to the bedroom...and nearly fell over when, like some goddamn starfish, Sangjun's limbs suddenly twined around him and "Shit—" he scrambled to regain his balance, redistribute their weights, grasping at scratchy fabric and hard muscles as he quickly redirected their momentum—

Right into a wall instead of the floor. With a solid thud, Sangjun's back hit the white-plastered concrete, jarring both of them. _That had to hurt_ , Inho winced as he fetched up against Sangjun, who didn't seem too fazed by the impact and instead, with his legs still wrapped around Inho's waist, began slowly grinding against Inho, who was only slightly distracted by the friction and the hot, gasping breaths against his neck...even if—this was a very, _very_ interesting position...

Inho didn't dare move his body—or his hands, from where they supported the back of Sangjun's thighs—because this was not the time to send mixed signals. He was unable to stop grinning, though, as he murmured, "You, my friend, are being ridiculous."

A pause in Sangjun's movements (and a relief for Inho's wandering thoughts). His gaze searched Inho's face, and he traced his thumb over Inho's lips. They stared unblinkingly at each other, Inho waiting for Sangjun to snap out of whatever was distracting him...

And then Sangjun breathlessly proposed, "Let's fuck."

Ah... "Let's not."

"Why?"

"You're wasted."

"Who cares?"

Ignoring the petulance and shutting down all inappropriate thoughts, Inho briskly hefted Sangjun and backed them away from the wall. "You're too big for this," he muttered, taking careful steps toward the bedroom.

"Hmm..." was Sangjun's only response as he continued to hold on tightly. At least now though, instead of rutting, he busied himself with pressing slow, sloppy kisses along Inho's forehead and ear and neck—wherever his mouth could reach.

"Oi, Lee Sangjun." Inho didn't bother masking his amusement as he asked, quite rhetorically, "Should you be acting this way?"

He felt Sangjun smiling against his cheek, and it...was sort of...fuck it—it _was_ endearing. The whole playful act was just another mask, sure, but the guy was good at wearing it, and this was a kind of game that Inho never minded playing with his lady friends. Besides, it wasn't much fun to take a drunk person _seriously_.

Inho was impressed, when he tried to dump his burden into the bed, by how well Sangjun held on as he whispered, "If we're not gonna fuck, stay for a bit."

"Yes yes, I can do that," Inho placated, because any minute now, Sangjun was going to fall dead asleep. "Just—let go of me."

Sangjun did, and Inho went to work. It was an easy routine, taking off socks and outerwear, undoing the watch, digging out wallet and keys...all the while, Sangjun was a quietly drunk and very sleepy presence.

"Do you want me to pick up Mr. Jeon?" Inho asked as he organized the items on the nightstand.

"Not your job," Sangjun murmured, barely audible.

"But I should at least make sure—"

"Fuck that. He's probably screwing around with hookers at another club by now..."

Inho nodded patiently and then settled the covers over Sangjun, whose breaths evened out quickly. Again, routine, as he prepared the medicine and the water, and finally left after turning off all the lights. Just one more thing to do before going home. Whatever Sangjun might say, Inho was partially responsible for Seunghwan, and he would drag the man out if he had to.

But it turned out not to be too much of a hassle after all. Seunghwan was still at the club. His enthusiastic "Eeeeyyy Mr. Choiii!" and disheveled appearance, complete with multiple lipstick marks, indicated that he'd been thoroughly entertained. A bit of no-nonsense politeness and a reminder that he'd have to show up for at least a couple hours to work did the trick. Sangjun was a quiet drunk compared to Seunghwan, whose voice boomed stridently in Inho's ears as he bid his girls goodbye. Inho also had to pry Seunghwan off one of the girls near the exit (no way he was taking her home). But other than that—easy.

* * *

Inho spent Tuesday with Soonyi at his heels, first at the training hall and then at Taegyu's shop. Disciplined as ever and with her well-groomed white coat, Soonyi had been a bit of an attraction for the passersby. Inho left before Taegyu closed up shop, dropping by his home to let Soonyi rest, and then visited his go-to bar.

"You don't bring your girlfriends around anymore," Jongdae commented as Inho settled at the counter. "Did you get secretly married and forget to invite me?"

Inho grinned. "Don't insult me."

"Just saying," Jongdae shrugged, smirking, as he passed Inho a pint of beer. He resumed wiping down the glasses.

Early evening on Tuesdays was quiet in Jongdae's little bar, and Inho enjoyed these uneventful hours, nursing a beer and occasionally conversing with his old friend. Jongdae used to be Inho's 'right hand', back in the day, and, for all that he'd skipped school and gotten into all sorts of other trouble (with Inho as the irresponsible leader), Jongdae had done well for himself, ended up taking over and overhauling his father's old cabaret.

"How's Yihwa doing?" Inho asked after Jongdae attended to another customer.

"Too busy to give _you_ the time of the day. She's having a blast taking care of the twins."

"She was my friend before she even met you," Inho chuckled. "You still jealous about that?"

"Nah, I know she loves me."

"Well, let her know that if she's not satisfied with you, I'll be more than happy to be her guy on the side," Inho joked.

"Adultery is a crime," Jongdae drawled, "Don't go looking to build a rap sheet now."

Inho waved vaguely.

"I don't see you that often. What's up with you? What are you doing these days?"

"Got myself a new job."

"Yeah?"

"Personal security to a business exec," Inho replied lightly, hoping he wouldn't have to elaborate. There was only so much he could omit.

"So it's true? Taegyu mentioned it but he seemed a bit cagey. Of all the guys to end up with that kind of job...it's kind of your thing, though not quite respectable." He chuckled. "Not that what you've been doing the last couple years is fitting either. Who's the boss?"

"Just some managing director"—Jongdae's eyebrows rose up—"at the Gyeongsangnam-do branch of JM Corp."

Jongdae whistled lowly. "Not bad at all. Though I always pictured _you_ being the one with that fancy title."

"I'm a merchant's simple son, not a company man." Inho shrugged.

"Pahh, people would kill to have the kind of opportunity you were born into."

"I've said it before, if you want a new job, I can put in a good word for you."

"Like the word of a maknae who doesn't even have a position has any clout," Jongdae teased, making Inho grin. "I'm a humble bar owner. Maybe when my kids are grown up I'll take you up on that offer. Secure a future for them." He finished wiping down his last glass and then poured a shot of soju for himself. "You meeting someone?"

"Just enjoying the pleasure of your company."

"Save that for the ladies, Inho."

Inho laughed. "Taegyu's joining us later. You got a smoke?"

"Yeah," Jongdae reached in his pocket, "here."

They smoked in silence for a while, Jongdae distracted briefly by his other customer.

When Jongdae returned, Inho asked, "Am I getting too old to be sleeping around?"

"What the fuck. Why are you asking that right now? You're barely thirty—not that you'll ever be too old to fool around."

Inho nodded slowly.

"Especially if you ever decide to get yourself a title, a share of your family's influence. It's a miracle you don't have any bastard children running around," Jongdae joked. "You got lady problems, don't you? That's what this is? Seeing them all leave you behind, get hitched..."

"That's not it."

"You know, I bet you've broken their hearts."

"That's stupid."

"Women are inherently incapable of separating heart and mind."

Inho grinned fondly at his friend. "Mhm, just like you." Jongdae was one of the toughest guys Inho knew, but when it came to love—when it came to Yihwa—Jongdae was soft-hearted, still went weak at the knees, and he took his vows of faithfulness very, very seriously. Inho liked that.

"The whole friends-with-benefits thing," Jongdae continued, pointedly ignoring Inho, "doesn't work in the long run."

"They'd beg to differ."

"Why are they avoiding you then?"

"It isn't avoidance. They're just busy with their own lives. It's not like we don't talk, but we keep missing opportunities to hang out."

"'Hang out'...jeez, Inho, you and your _ladies_ are not 'just friends'. You can't win against biology."

"You have fun with your love-filled monogamous life," Inho lazily waved a hand. "Guess I'm just not ready to settle down yet."

"Poor tiger, still on the prowl trying to find 'the one'..."

 _There is no 'the one'_ , Inho wanted to say, _There's only duty and practicality_ , but...no need to rain on his friend's happy reality.

"Hey, we should have a get-together sometime. It's been a while since the guys met up."

"That'd be nice." A high school reunion, specifically of Inho's network of close friends and followers, was a rare and rewarding event. "Might be difficult though. I know a couple of them have left Busan since the last reunion."

Jongdae snorted. "Yeah, I heard. Maybe the wife pool is better out there..." he trailed off, gaze traveling to the entrance, and smirked, raised his hand in a half-salute.

Inho turned to see Taegyu, who was waving as he scurried over.

Once Taegyu was seated, Jongdae passed him a bottle of soju and a shot glass. "Been a while since our dedicated family man joined us!"

And that offhand teasing was, for some reason, a revelation to Inho.

All this talk about married life made him feel strangely...off. Inevitability that he didn't truly understand; the way things were (even a man as timid as Taegyu had gotten married so easily and so quickly, with a toddler at home). Inho wondered what it was about a person that made a man want to settle down with her, share their lives. There was love in a healthy marriage, certainly: you started off with a burning passion and let it cool over time, or with politeness born of obligation and allow a quiet devotion to bloom (Inho used his parents as a template for the latter)...it _had_ to be some kind of love that kept a marriage together for over four decades...

Or, perhaps, it was simply the enduring strength of a sense of duty. 'Love' was unnecessary. What even was it, in any other context than family and friendship? 

...Why the fuck was he dwelling on this inanity?

Inho downed his beer, deciding to drink away all those useless thoughts, and his friends gladly obliged him.

Late Wednesday morning, after recovering from his light hangover, Inho went ahead and called Hyejin. He hadn't realized just how much he missed a woman's touch.

There really was no beating around the bush with Hyejin. The pleasantries leading up to Inho's question, "My place or yours?" was devoid of any coyness or nervousness. "Mine," said Hyejin, "I've work later, and my place is close to Mi Hyang." She gave succinct directions to her apartment. Inho said, "Then I'll bring some lunch," to which Hyejin cheerily agreed.

And that was that.

Women were so much...simpler, to deal with when it came to matters of the flesh. There wasn't any hint of constant competition or antagonism, of uneasy alienness, whatever it was that filled the air with undefinable tension when Sangjun fucked him. Inho felt very much like his old self as he took his pleasure from worshipping Hyejin's body. She wanted to use Inho as a destressor, so he would gladly oblige. He had a reputation to maintain, even if it was only for his own knowledge, and he made sure to do his best.

The sex burned through a couple leisurely hours, and afterwards—following the clean-up and the shower and the quick, late lunch—Inho helped Hyejin get ready for her shift, combing out her long hair while she expertly applied her make-up. When he offered to drive her, she accepted with a sweet grin.

Inho's fantastic mood lasted until evening, when a phone call from his older sister tempered the glow.

It wasn't that he didn't love his family. He hadn't seen them in a long time though, and his current situation was quite far from the expectations of his family name, and a visit all the way up to the capital was an ordeal in itself. But Inhye, his older sister by one year, stressed just how _insistent_ their mother was, especially because "We missed you every Chuseok and Seollal after you moved to Busan. You haven't visited _any_ of us since then."

Put like that, Inho had indeed been a terrible son and brother for the past few years. "I'm sorry, Noona. Is...Mother there?"

"No, she went out to dinner with her friends." Inhye's usually chirpy voice sounded melancholy when she continued, "Inho, you're still our beloved maknae, so please visit this year, Mother is going to cry if you 'forget' again. We miss your stupid face, and there aren't many days where most of us can get together."

"You should all come home to Busan then," he joked, but he wouldn't refuse. "I'll be there, don't worry."

At least this time, his job wasn't much of an obstacle. He just needed to deal with Sangjun's inevitable response, but that wasn't anything to worry about.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: An ink commission, by  **[somethingyesterday](http://somethingyesterday.tumblr.com)**!! TvT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- hyung (형) = "elder brother", used by males to address slightly older males who aren't necessarily blood-related  
> \- Gyeongsangnam-do (경상남도) = South Gyeongsang Province  
> \- maknae (막내) = the youngest in age among siblings, among a group, etc.  
> \- Chuseok (설날) and Seollal (추석) = Mid-Autumn Festival and Lunar New Year, respectively  
> \- noona/nuna (누나) = "elder sister", used by males to refer to/address (slightly) older females; gender equivalent to 'hyung'


	14. Inho takes the initiative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho takes the initiative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of the chapter ended up being smut....... >_>;;

"It's the 8th of May this Sunday," Inho said as he drove into the underground garage of the apartment complex.

"Mh," Sangjun grunted.

"Parents' Day."

"So it is."

Inho didn't say anything as he neatly parked and turned off the ignition. They got out of the car and, after trailing a few steps behind Sangjun, he went on. "I promised my mother I would show my face."

"So you're asking for permission to take the day off."

"No. I'm telling you that I'll be away the entire weekend." Sangjun's walking slowed as they arrived at the private elevator and he listened without interjecting. "I leave for Seoul on Saturday morning. Should be back Sunday night."

"What makes you think I'll just let you skip work?"

"And what makes you think you can stop me?" Although tempted to just tell Sangjun to fuck off, the guy had a point. Inho knew how to be a proper employee; he'd never been so informal about taking days off before. But he still considered this affair to be an exception...and he wanted to see just how lenient Sangjun would continue to be. "Don't you have family to spend time with? Pay respects to your own parents."

"I see enough family."

Sangjun's dismissive tone didn't welcome further discussion, and the elevator had arrived, so Inho dropped that topic. Instead, as they entered the elevator and he pressed the button for Sangjun's floor, he dryly said, "I'll make it up to you."

"You bet your fine ass you will," Sangjun grumbled, seizing Inho's arm, "starting now," and pushed him back into the far wall of the elevator.

Ah, so predictable.

Inho let himself be pressed against the wall. He responded to a surprisingly gentle kiss for a few seconds, the faintest stirrings of lust beginning to warm his skin...but.

"Okay, that's enough," he mumbled against Sangjun's lips, casually but firmly slipping out of his hold so that they weren't so questionably close to each other. "Just...wait a minute," he said as he retreated to the opposite wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Stop fucking around," Sangjun warned, but a hint of a smile undermined his annoyance.

"Making out in an elevator?" Inho raised an eyebrow, trying to hide his own amusement. "We're not a couple of undisciplined teenagers. You have better impulse control. Use it."

Sangjun tilted his head, opened his mouth just a fraction, and then closed it again. Hesitant. Then his expression turned serene as he pocketed his hands and said nothing. The corner of Inho's mouth tilted up in a tiny, lopsided smirk.

Neither of them looked away. A bit of a waiting game; not a bad way to let the tension build up, especially when Inho could so easily read the heat in Sangjun's eyes...

The elevator dinged its stop, the doors slid open. Sangjun reached out to thread his fingers through Inho's and tugged him along. It was such a weirdly innocent, earnest gesture that Inho had to smile. His afternoon with Hyejin had been a significant boost to his mood and confidence, and now his pulse fluttered in anticipation for some more fun. And if this particular 'friend' happened to be man-shaped and very, _very_ willing...well, Inho's libido really wasn't complaining.

Before the door could even click shut behind them, Sangjun had kicked off his shoes and was tugging at Inho's tie. Inho readily kissed back as he fumbled to get his own shoes off in the dark. The tiniest prick of annoyance at having to leave his shoes haphazardly lying around disappeared as soon as he felt it, unable to withstand Sangjun's insistence propelling them across the threshold of the entryway. Inho switched on the living room lights as they made their way across the apartment and reached the privacy of the bedroom—another moment to turn on the floor lamp—and then he crowded Sangjun against the wall right next to the door.

Inho's hands were anchored to Sangjun's waist while they continued kissing; one of Sangjun's hands was wrapped around Inho's neck, the other a warm and comforting presence at his waist. Strangely chaste.

It was...odd, making out like they didn't _have_ to get to the sex. Inho gently pressed his thigh against the stiffness poking it, earning a lovely little moan.

And then, in a fit of absentmindedness, he reached first.

It was a startling sensation for both of them. A strangled gasp spilled from Sangjun's lips as Inho broke off the kiss, dumbfounded. They looked down simultaneously at Inho's hand covering the fabric straining over Sangjun's hard length.

Inho blinked. Then he pressed on, lightly palming and massaging. Somewhat clumsy...but Sangjun's hitched breathing and soft gasps, the way he squirmed, the strength of his grip on Inho's arms—they were definitely encouraging. And slowly, Inho let his eyes travel up again, over the crinkles of a soft gray shirt and up the lines of black silk tie, lingering on the slightly unsteady rise and fall of a broad chest.

Lee Sangjun was an objectively good-looking person. Inho readily acknowledged this fact, and he was very much charmed by the sight of prettily parted lips and a very agreeable flush, by the way those thickly-lashed eyes were closed and his brow was furrowed in pleasure. Getting bolder and more heated up every second, he thought, _Why not? This is, after all, my element_.

With that final, uncomplicated decision, he angled his head down to resume their kissing—this time with more heat, a little more sharpness—and just for a couple minutes, let his hands explore the hard curves and dips of the toned, utterly masculine body, itching to touch the warm skin underneath the clothes. Shivers ran down his back as hands grasped at his shoulders and neck, as he swallowed the sweet, breathless groans that Sangjun fed him. He traced down the ridges of back muscles, rubbed his own stiffening erection against Sangjun while giving Sangjun's ass a thorough grope, and then returned his hands to their original target.

Inho felt strangely like he'd just run up to a cliff and was teetering indeterminately at the edge, his vision blurring for a precarious moment. His pulse kicked up as he fumbled at Sangjun's belt—there was little reason to feel nervous, but his hands weren't quite steady—and the metallic clinking of the buckle sounded much more indecent than it should. He made quicker work of the button and zipper, tugged down the waistband of soft underwear. Relished the first touch of heated skin and hair against his knuckles.

Finally, willingly, and without any reservations, Inho was feeling up another man's erection.

It wasn't some groundbreaking difference...even if (even if— _fuck_ —he marveled at the warmth under his palm, the contrasts of weight and hardness underneath soft folds of skin, the solidity of this moment), even if it actually kind of was...

With a rough sound, Sangjun broke away from the kiss. "I-Inho—if you keep that up, I'm— _oh_ fuck—" he panted, fingers tightening around Inho's neck, "I won't be able to stop myself—"

"You're never good at that anyway," Inho murmured, not giving a damn that his mouth was apparently running on automatic, "Don't hurt yourself trying." He kissed the skin behind Sangjun's ear, determined to enjoy this kind of fun with Sangjun, and breathed in the subtle scents of lingering cologne and hair gel and a busy day's worth of musk. Now that he bothered to pay attention, it was a rich scent as heady as any woman's that shot arousal straight to his groin.

With a last lazy pump of Sangjun's cock, Inho backed off. He roughly tugged loose the knot of his tie and slipped the loop over his head, dropping it to swiftly untuck and unbutton his shirt, shrug it off. Socks off, unbuckle his belt...and all the while, he watched Sangjun's hungry gaze following every reveal of skin, tracked the way he moved forward—almost predatory—mirroring Inho's backward steps as he distractedly plucked at his own shirt buttons.

Stepping out of his crumpled slacks, Inho leisurely pulled down his boxers, making a point of letting the waistband rest over his jutting erection for just a moment. The process of undressing wasn't particularly noteworthy for him; he and most of his lady friends liked to promptly get to the fun part, and clothes were a factor that usually only got in the way. But Sangjun looked so damn appreciative, so enthralled, that Inho had stupidly decided to (try to) make a bit of a show of it, even if it was always a rather awkward, self-conscious action, attempting to be...what was it, seductive? Inho scoffed at himself as the silliness passed (but he savored the tendril of gratification at the way Sangjun licked his lips) and he briskly got rid of his boxers, right before the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed.

"Like I said." Inho got on the bed and then did nothing more suggestive than sit down cross-legged. "I'm making up for the weekend." He watched as Sangjun hurriedly finished undressing and climbed into bed. "Do what you want. Fair's fair—"

Sangjun pounced, and Inho fell back onto the covers, obligingly spreading his legs. For the next minute or three, Inho couldn't talk—not that he particularly wanted to—because his mouth was taken in another pleasantly searing kiss, while their erections rubbed together, a wonderful sensory distraction. Sangjun carded his fingers through Inho's hair, his other hand sliding down Inho's bicep and forearm, lingering to grip the wrist, before their palms met and Sangjun twined his fingers with Inho's. With his free hand, Inho grabbed Sangjun's ass. _Hm...nice_ , he thought hazily.

When Sangjun pulled away, his lips were wet and swollen and his breathing was satisfyingly unsteady. He grabbed Inho's legs and settled between the open thighs, hands shamelessly squeezing and spreading Inho's ass cheeks. His cock bumped against Inho's a couple times before slipping down...and no words were needed for Inho to understand Sangjun's intent. Inho's body wanted it too; his nerves practically ached for it.

While Sangjun retrieved the lube, Inho rolled over onto his stomach and absently rearranged some pillows. He hadn't given his action a second thought, but apparently that was the right move (not that he really needed to do much to get Sangjun worked up).

" _Fuck_..." Sangjun breathed, smoothing a palm up Inho's calf. "Do you have any idea how you look, spreading for me?"

"No, and no need to enlighten me," Inho replied as Sangjun's hand settled on the back of his knee. "Stop talking and—" his confidence withered, just a tiny bit, "—and fuck me already."

"...You _want_ me to—"

"What did I say about talking?"

Laughter washed warmly over Inho's back, almost contagious, as Sangjun murmured, "Bossy."

Inho sniffed. Well, since Sangjun didn't seem interested in taking advantage of such a helpful accommodation...Inho straightened his arms to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder blade stopped him.

"Don't be a brat, Choi Inho," Sangjun murmured (and Inho smiled at the tone), pushing forward against Inho's momentary, playful resistance.

As Inho got into position again, Sangjun's hand stroked down slowly, his lips following the path like a second touch, to settle on the small of Inho's back. Strong fingers massaged the sensitive skin there before they drifted southward.

Sangjun's heat felt wonderful against Inho's skin as he leaned over and practically purred, "Do what I want, is it..." sliding a dry finger over Inho's hole.

Inho's breath caught in his throat, his skin seemed to throb in anticipation. "Hurry up and get on with it," he growled, closing his eyes and hugging the pillow to his face.

"...I like this side of you."

Inho relaxed as a wet finger entered him. "What, the side that enjoys sex? It's not news."

"The side that so obviously enjoys taking my cock."

Inho huffed into the pillow. "It's a novelty, but it's just sex," _and it feels as good as_ —a second finger, the sting of it easily endured, the stretch wholly welcome— _as good as any other time_.

"'Just sex'. You'd make good money as an escort..."

"Don't start with the insults."

"...but I don't want to share you anyway."

"Too bad, I'll share myself with— _nhh_ —" Inho's toes curled at the surge of pleasure lancing across his skin as the fingers brushed that damned sensitive spot, and it was a struggle to finish his sentence, "—with whomever I wish."

"Hn. A player's words."

"Damn right," Inho breathed as the fingers disappeared; he wasn't particularly attached to that term, but it was better than most alternatives.

Sangjun's laugh was a light, uninhibited sound, if a bit harried, and cut short when he pushed his cock in with a low, reverent groan.

It wasn't a gentle movement—there was too much need behind the penetration—but for Inho, the rough and perfunctory minute of prep had been enough. Honestly, it was a relief to feel that heat again, that indescribably sensuous not-quite-pain...and the slow, almost torturous pace made it all the better to savor it. Sangjun kept rolling his hips _just so_ , at the angle and depth that made it near-impossible to focus on anything else but the onslaught of sensation.

When Inho stopped thinking about all the ways he could object against stupid little things or butt heads with an equally stubborn guy, it was easy to fall back to his default approach to sex: keep it light, keep it fun, and enjoy. 

And he was more than willing to give in for several blissful moments.

But soon enough, Inho felt an urge to do...more with himself, restless with the rather slow pace that Sangjun was maintaining. Lovely memories of his lady friends enthusiastically riding him flashed through his mind. At the next easy slide, he shoved back, immediately using the leverage to topple Sangjun, and in a flash, he was kneeling astride Sangjun's stomach and pinning his shoulder to the mattress.

The move hadn't taken more than a couple seconds, but Sangjun was caught so off-guard that he didn't seem to register what the fuck had just happened, even as Inho—eyes boldly locked on the comically owlish expression—reached behind himself.

As he positioned himself over Sangjun's cock, Inho tried not to imagine how he looked...but he'd never been too self-conscious when enthusiastic sex was concerned, why start now?  _Because it's different, because now_ I'm _the one contemplating riding a guy like I'm so goddamn greedy for it_. He scoffed at himself but quickly banished all stupid thoughts when he felt the head slipping against his hole, and sank down in one swift movement.

The sudden, welcome feeling of fullness knocked the breath out of him, whited out his thoughts for an instant, and he only distantly registered Sangjun's choked-off "f-uck!" as he tried to catch his breath, unable to put the sensation into words... _but, it's not bad...not at all_. Canting his hips awkwardly before grinding down to continue chasing his pleasure, he felt as ungainly as an untried boy, but tried again and then again—bolder and less clumsy each time—and again—because as new as the position was for him, this was sex. Not complicated and not supposed to be an exercise in thought, and Sangjun was definitely liking what Inho was doing, if the palpable tension in his body, shivering with barely-controlled energy, was any indication...

Oh, right. The shift of bone and firm muscles under his palms, the trembling fingers digging into his forearms, abruptly reminded Inho of his own strength, his not-inconsiderable weight pressing down on his partner, and he pointedly took his hands off Sangjun's right shoulder and left bicep to grip the headboard instead for purchase.

Just in time, because Sangjun came back to his senses and his control unraveled right then. He let out an almost feral noise—of desperate need and frustration and maybe a hint of possessiveness—that sent a thrill down Inho's spine; his strong hands were like a vice, his fingers bruising as he held Inho in place and fucked up into him hard and fast.

 _Finally_...Inho reveled in that savage animalism skirting the edge of violence, in the way he seemed to feel every sharp thrust down to his bones, in the fact that all he could do was hold on...and what—

 _What would it be like to be able to do this to a guy?_ his mind whispered insidiously, and—shit— _What would it be like to fuck Sangjun?_

His suddenly wayward imagination helpfully expanded on that notion, and Inho couldn't block out the utterly indecent, intensely arousing notion of looking down at that irreverently tattooed back as his cock sank into— _oh god_ —

Embarrassingly overcome by that scenario, his grip on the headboard nearly slipped as he rode out the aggressive thrusts. He dragged a trembling hand down his heated face and covered his mouth to smother a breathless curse as his brain ran off with all sorts of ideas that he'd previously refused to acknowledge. _To be as rough as I want, for as long as I want? Without worrying about leaving behind a few bruises, a bit of hurt?_

Every sexual act they'd engaged in, Inho had felt an odd passivity that didn't just arise from his being the receiver; he actually enjoyed the novelty of his partner doing most of the vigorous work. But he'd been closed off (almost _meek_ ) more than he'd realized, unwilling to entertain too many thoughts too deeply...shying away from the darker, more savage places his mind wanted to wander into.

He'd had fun with a fair share of women who sometimes demanded a bit of aggressiveness, but he always kept his two greatest pleasures of the body—sex and fighting—on opposite ends of the spectrum. When it came to the ladies, Inho got some of the most intense highs from giving pleasure; he loved to take care of their needs more than anything, to satisfy with technique and patience, not just a quick hard screw (unless they really wanted it)—whatever they needed. With women, Inho couldn't conceive of wanting to be even _more_ selfish, to exercise even more control and just... _take_ , without giving a damn about the other's comfort. But...he and Sangjun both were used to a bit of rough treatment, to violent physical competition...

 _Fuck_ it all. He'd been infected by Sangjun's brand of sexuality. There was no other reason for him to want to fuck another guy so badly, to be so turned on by the thought of a powerful masculine body writhing under him...

Sangjun grabbed the back of Inho's thighs and, as Inho wrapped his legs around Sangjun's waist instead of resisting the momentum, sat up and shoved forward, cock never slipping out as he flipped their positions so that Inho was now lying on his back feeling slightly disoriented. It was...an exciting maneuver, actually. Inho was so used to being the tallest, biggest, strongest guy in the room, it had never occurred to him that anyone could have enough strength to so easily handle him in this kind of intimate setting.

Damn. The manhandling, the unflagging vigor behind Sangjun's fucking, only fueled Inho's newfound desires.

Inho tried to reconcile Managing Director Lee, part-time gangster, with the naked vision currently looming above him. Strands of sweat-soaked hair fell across his eyes, and pleasure (fuck...Inho's nerves buzzed with profound satisfaction at how much Sangjun was enjoying this) softened the handsome features...and it was oh-so-easy to imagine him asking, begging, for cock. _Does he delight in it as much as I do? What kinds of eager noises would spill from those lips? Is he loud? Who's gotten the opportunity to plow that ass?_ Inho stared blindly at Sangjun's face. _Does Chairman Jeon take every opportunity to bend him over and—?_

That last notion bordered on _too_ perverted for Inho's weakened composure. He bit down on his bottom lip, covering his eyes with his hand as he ruthlessly subdued his overactive—and suddenly crude—imagination.

No more thinking. Fantasize later. 

Inho focused on the physical sensations, on each instance of contact between sweat-damp skin as Sangjun pounded into him.

It really was so much better to be fully engaged and willing when it came to fucking...even if it meant that now there was only moving forward and breaking past whatever reservations he still held.

He was so lost in the hedonism of the moment, it was a shock when he felt the hand wrapping around his erection and he couldn't stop from crying out. His hands twisted the sheets as Sangjun jerked him off, quick and rough and with the most exquisite amount of pressure, and his legs felt alarmingly boneless and—fuck—it was too much additional stimulation—...he wasn't going to last much longer.

He pried his eyes open when he sensed Sangjun approaching the brink, intent on capturing the ecstasy overtaking Sangjun's face, because it was—honestly, it was gratification at its finest to know that he, in whatever capacity, could make all of his bedmates feel this...

That was his last coherent thought before he was spilling messily over his stomach.

Sangjun gave a few last, languid strokes of Inho's softening cock before slipping out, Inho dismissed the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness, and they both caught their breath.

No crude remarks, no leering appreciation. Just a prolonged, suspended moment where Sangjun apparently made the decision that cuddling, for lack of a better word, was the best course of action. He lay his head on Inho's chest, slipped an arm under Inho's back, and just...touched—light and aimless and, in any other normal context, affectionate.

Inho didn't mind (some of his lady friends had enjoyed that kind of tactility), and he appreciated the peace; it would be a pity to ruin the pleasant descent from their high with unnecessary comments and awkwardness. And he used this calm interlude to shelve his earlier fantasies. He might be a 'player', but it wasn't his style to treat sex (even with another man) like some brutish, distasteful show of power.

Lee Sangjun...he was certainly testing Inho's integrity, but Inho still possessed his self-control, even if he didn't know how _exactly_ he felt about those fantasies. The alternative—to treat the guy with the sort of attention reserved for women—was certainly an intriguing notion, now that he thought about it, but not what he particularly wanted per se, because there was a certain _something_ —in addition to the circumstances of their meeting—holding him back, and because the mere existence of this affair was already too much newness and excitement in his life...and why the fuck was he overthinking this shit?

"...What are you thinking about?" An odd, tentative question.

"Nothing that concerns you."

A short silence, where Inho had a chance to feel slightly sorry about the brusqueness of his dishonest reply. He might have admitted to himself that he was quite all right with screwing around with Sangjun because, sure, he was apparently able to lust after guys...but he wasn't going to announce that outright. And there was no need to bring up any of the other things.

"But, that was fun," fell easily, if a bit gruffly, off his lips this time. It was the truth; they were, simply put, fuck buddies, and Inho felt uncomfortable _not_ giving the barest minimum of honest reassurance.

Sangjun hummed shortly—in agreement, satisfaction, amusement...? Inho couldn't accurately determine—and then sluggishly detached himself from Inho to get his cigarettes. He sat back against the pillows and, when he saw Inho watching him, he wordlessly held out the open pack.

It had taken a while for Inho to break his own habit of chain-smoking, but he didn't refuse the temptation of an occasional smoke. He pulled out a cigarette as Sangjun lit his own and then Inho's. With a grunt of thanks, Inho took a deep pull when the flame hit the tip of the cig. Fuck, that was nice...his eyes drifted shut; he relaxed. The bed shifted again as Sangjun moved the ashtray to the space on the rumpled covers between them.

The room was quiet for the next couple minutes, save for the sounds of their soft breathing. Inho smoked a quarter of his cig, spent a few moments just watching the steadily burning column of ash, before he decided to stop.

He reached over his opposite shoulder to grind the stub into the ashtray, closed his eyes and arched his back in a satisfying full-body stretch. A huge yawn cracked his jaw as he sprawled back, prompting him to really start compartmentalizing his experience: sex was over, it was almost time to go, he had stuff to do.

But he could afford a few more minutes of laziness...and, with nothing else for his mouth to do and the comfortable atmosphere loosening his tongue, he spoke up to stay floating above the post-coital haze. "Honestly, Lee Sangjun, you're a fun lay. It's a pity that I'm the only one who seems to know this right now. I know a few women who'd appreciate your energy, and I'm sure there are plenty of horny guys out there praying for someone like you."

Sangjun wordlessly puffed away at his own cigarette. Inho didn't mind the silence though, since he didn't expect a response anyway.

"If you _must_ be dramatic about who you take to bed...Mr. Yu once mentioned that you risked your life chasing after some guy from a rival gang or something. Try that out again, should be mildly entertaining." Inho smirked, imagining a boyishly silly scenario when he might actually get to  _be_  a bodyguard, where he and Sangjun might stand back-to-back fending off a bunch of muggers or a pack of irritated gangsters...a fun little adventure. "I've never been exclusive with my friends, and it's baffling why you're the one being so picky here. This is all, by the way, completely serious advice."

"That guy—..." Sangjun began abruptly and trailed off, as though surprised that he'd even said anything. 

Inho was just as startled. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling instead of turning his head to look at Sangjun, but he stayed quiet.

After a few moments, Sangjun disposed of his cigarette and went on softly. "He was the cleverest guy I knew. Much more brains than brawn, and amazingly quick with numbers." He sounded distant, contemplative. "One year my junior at Myungnam. We ran into each other a few years later at some random noraebang, and he made the first move. I learned he'd graduated with a business degree at Seoul, received top honors even, but he was working as a mid-level accountant for one of the Nampodong mobs. Why a guy like that ended up working for some gangsters...didn't matter. I kept going back to him."

"Ah. The age-old story of reckless, youthful passion," Inho commented in amusement. "Prostitutes not good enough for you, even back then?"

Sangjun said nothing for a long moment. And then, without a hint of emotion or embarrassment: "I loved him."

Uh. What.

Inho frowned, biting back his immediate cynicism. What kind of utter bullshit was this?

"...Riiiight."

Sangjun laughed humorlessly. "It was real, at the time."

Inho felt a strong urge to smack Sangjun...but that wasn't nice, and it was rather rude to just blurt out shit like 'You were deluded, mistaking lust for love,' or 'You allowed your dick to think and feel too much for you,' or 'Whatever you guys shared would've gone nowhere,' while Sangjun was being talkative and—for all intents and purposes—opening up to Inho like they were actually friends.

"But it was a one-sided thing."

Oh. "That...ah, that sucks," Inho muttered lamely. He couldn't really _empathize_ here, could he? He felt a twinge of guilt at his previous thoughts.

Clink, snap. Clink, snap. The sound of Sangjun playing with his lighter filled the room for a few seconds before he said, "It's history. I know better now." He sounded very matter-of-fact, like he was completely over it already (of course he had to be). "...I know better," he repeated, softly but fiercely—as though he was trying to convince himself.

"Good. You learned your lesson. Though it's rather idiotic to have fallen so hard in the first place."

Sangjun grunted and then muttered, "What a goddamn fucking disappointment. I'm usually good at reading people, but...it took me too long to realize he was a conniving little rat."

Laughing at himself for believing, for even a second, that a guy like Lee Sangjun could seriously mean anything by his ridiculous admission, Inho asked flippantly, "Aren't you all?"

"For all your contempt, some of us do follow a code of ethics."

Inho sat up and scratched an itch on his shoulder, smiling wryly. "'Code of _ethics_ ' my ass," he muttered, rolling his shoulders to relieve some of the lingering tightness in his back. "Our fathers' days are long gone, and geondal—in _this_ day and age..." he snorted. "Only the yakuza can believably claim to still uphold that shit." Organized crime in this country only wished it could be as systemic (and notorious) as their counterparts across the East Sea. "What are you—wannabe yakuza?"

"My hyung has ties with them. If I ever wanted access to a wider market..."

"Don't"—Inho pointedly gave Sangjun a look of mild disgust—"go down that route, Director Lee." He got out of bed with a hearty spring in his step, and soft laughter followed him as he walked off.

"Why was Mr. Yu even gossiping about that?"

"It was only a passing comment," Inho said as he padded into the bathroom and threw a light, "I didn't ask you to elaborate," over his shoulder before he shut the door.

Inho took a couple minutes to rinse off. He toweled himself dry as he emerged from the bathroom (no reason to be shy about nudity), retrieved his scattered clothes, and went to business. Boxers, shirt, slacks...

He'd just inserted his belt into the first loop when Sangjun quietly said, "Inho." He looked up to see Sangjun's eyes fixed on him; the guy still had that soft, well-sated expression on his face.

"Yeah?" Inho prompted, when they just kept staring at each other.

"Stay the night."

"Why?" Inho returned his attention to the belt, getting the rest of it around his waist.

"You said you're making up for the weekend. Why are you questioning me?"

"Mmm." The corner of Inho's mouth twitched up. "No," he answered, putting on his watch.

"Why not?"

"I have responsibilities besides attending you."

"Fuck your chores—"

"I agreed to sex," Inho interrupted calmly, "not a sleepover." He fastened the buttons at his wrists before finally looking at Sangjun. "Besides, I'm starving."

Sangjun opened his mouth—and then shut it, a muscle twitching at his jaw as he looked away.

"Stop sulking. You're too old for it," Inho teased as he approached the bed. "I'll see you tomorrow..." he lowered his voice, gently grasped Sangjun's chin, "let you fuck me again," and tugged slightly to compel Sangjun to look at him. He brushed his thumb over pouting lips, quirked a smile as the grouchy expression melted into something much more agreeable. "I can be a great lay without you having to force me." Yeah, he had to live up to his reputation as a worthwhile fuck buddy, even if this affair was more of an odd job than anything. "We'll have another fun evening together and then I'll take off for the weekend. Sound good?"

"Do I have any choice in the matter?"

Inho flicked his gaze down Sangjun's naked form. "Definitely not in that state."

"Hn." Sangjun hooked an arm around Inho's shoulder to pull his head down for a kiss—and Inho had no trouble reciprocating—before letting go with a sigh. "Go then."

With a brisk, "Good night," Inho left.

In a not-too-surprising turn of events, he ended up _not_ spending any part of Friday with Sangjun because Seunghwan had monopolized Sangjun's attention by the time Inho had arrived for his shift. Aware of the family visit, Hyechul—bless him—sent Inho back home, responding to the peppy, "Thanks for getting the weekend covered, Hyung-nim!" with a soft snort and a wave of dismissal.

On the way home, Inho bought a round-trip ticket at the Busan Station, and visited the manhwabang to borrow some new books. Because he had free time tonight, he also checked in with Mrs. Jung to invite her and her husband out to dinner, as thanks for the landlady's gracious agreement to look after Soonyi during his absence. He took Soonyi out for a walk, gave her a bath, and in the evening, he and his landlords went out for tasty seafood hot-pot at one of the neighborhood's newer, popular restaurants.

A couple hours later, tipsy from the eight—nine?—bottles of soju imbibed between the three of them, they leisurely walked back to the apartment, Inho keeping an eye on the old man the whole way (the poor man's dementia apparently came and went; his coordination was still mostly unaffected, but he was drunk, and you never knew); and, with a polite farewell, he watched them lock the door behind themselves before he made his way upstairs. After a quick shower, he threw some clothes, books, and other essentials into an overnight bag, spent a quiet moment to read, and then went to bed.

* * *

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- noraebang (노래방) = karaoke place, (lit.) "song room"  
> \- Nampodong (남포동) = Nampo (남포) neighborhood (동) in Busan city's Central District  
> \- geondal (건달) = "thug/gangster/mobster" and used interchangeably with 'kkangpae'  
> \- hyung-nim (형님) = "respected older brother"; 'hyung' means "elder brother" and is often used by males to address older males who aren't necessarily blood-related, while the honorific suffix '-nim' shows formal respect towards the addressee  
> \- manhwabang (만화방) = "comic book room" from which patrons can borrow comics and other types of books for a small fee


	15. Inho visits family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho visits family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since the last update...and this chapter is a bit of a domestic interlude...
> 
>  **EDIT (12/31/16) for continuing readers:** Some Inho/Sangjun scenes have been added to the end of this chapter, since including those bits in the next chapter threw off its pacing.

The last time Inho had traveled the Gyeongbu Line all the way from one end to the other was two and a half years ago, when he had moved back to Busan after a few years in Seoul.

A suitcase in one hand and Soonyi's leash in the other, duffle bag over his shoulder, he'd up and left. And then, before he'd even realized, too much time had passed to postpone visiting his family. When the distance between them could be measured in little over four hours, he had little excuse.

Starting from Busan Station early in the morning today, the train wasn't very crowded, and a warm May drizzle dampened the already muted sounds of sleepy passengers. With each stop though, the atmosphere livened up. Inho read his book amidst the animated conversations and rustling newspapers, uneven thumping of feet and creaking of seats, and the soft patter of rain against the windows as the train rattled along.

It was early afternoon by the time he disembarked at Seoul Station, purchased a bus ticket for Gangnam-gu, and bought something to eat on-the-go. He grabbed a window seat near the back, and watched the blur of rain-warped scenery as the bus weaved through wet, freshly paved streets. High-rise buildings rose up in every direction; tower cranes and steel beams and rebar were skeletal fixtures of the expanding skyline. He remembered a time when Gangnam had been extremely underdeveloped compared to the rest of Seoul, but the district was always growing. The whole country continued to modernize. The fact that the Olympics were just around the corner only magnified that ever-present awareness of the immense productivity that had been a constant backdrop to his life.

Everything looked stark under the rain. It didn't help that he'd never quite taken to Seoul. The city was landlocked, the Han River the only large body of water for leagues. Surrounded by the smog-covered urban sprawl and the mountains beyond, with the uneasy knowledge of the DMZ located only perhaps a couple hour's drive north, he'd never escaped the feeling of being trapped. The winters were depressingly snowy, he'd never perfectly adopted the standard 'unaccented' dialect, and the fish were never as fresh as they should be. He'd never put his heart into trying to make it home.

Seoul was the capital, but the port city of Busan was on par as the country's hub of international commerce. He was too attached to its freshness, to the distinctly southeastern, bold flavor of his people...to all the youthful memories it held. Into closed his eyes, shuttering away the busy cityscape. There was nothing like a change of scenery to make that childhood feel like a lifetime away, and hit home the fact that not even two decades ago, third-world South Korea had only barely started clawing its way up to modernity.

The bus reached Gangnam Station an hour later and Inho promptly hailed a taxi. As the car darted through traffic, the wistfulness that'd settled in his chest after getting the call from his sister began to subside: he'd see his family, and he would enjoy his time here, even if he didn't particularly adore this city. The rain was a light mist when the taxi dropped him off. Under the cover of his umbrella, he turned the corner of the block and walked up the smaller road branching from the main street, into the cluster of some of the city's most extravagant houses.

A few more minutes through tree-lined roads, and there it was. A stone fence-wall surrounded the entire residence, its top lined with precise arrangements of blue-black tiles. Most of the space outside the south-facing walls was shrouded by the greenery spilling down the gentle slope of a tiny, heavily wooded hill. The path he followed along the northwest face was neatly lined with flowering trees. He passed the remote-controlled gate leading into the open garage. Turned right at the corner, and reached the wooden double-doors of the front entrance. One door was wide open, as if expecting his arrival. He stepped onto the low stone platform, then over the threshold.

The family's Seoul home was an interesting fusion of old hanok and modern architecture. The front yard alone, with its sizable pond and quaint pavilion, was an impressive sight, and the sheer area the stone walls enclosed... He'd forgotten just how beautiful the entire layout was. He'd also forgotten just how unsettling that splendor could be. With the main house's horizontal sprawl and several wings, the various yards, and the couple of buildings supplementing the main house, it was a mansion even compared to the rest of the neighborhood's houses in this ludicrously affluent cluster. As large as any single residential unit could be in such a populous district where land was _the_ most valuable commodity.

He'd been a kid when his father participated in the late-60s' land grabs. As the value of land around Seoul shot up, those investments began adding to his family's existing assets to rival the wealth of Gangnam's nouveau riche. He'd assumed it was merely business. He'd been unaware that a new family house had been built on one of the parcels of land, but then his parents had suddenly decided to move into it during Inho's second year of college after being discharged from the marines. Some resentment, and the fact that he'd already secured his own place and was preoccupied with college life, had curtailed his visits to the house.

The main house featured a blue-black tiled roof with asymmetrical slopes and subtle curves that echoed the contours of the tiny southern hill's treetops. It didn't carry as much of the weightiness that most traditional hanok structures had, partly to handle the two-story vertical height. Dark wood and light gray stone exteriors preserved the timeless feeling, as did the latticework on the doors and windows, all of which were covered with either glass or traditional paper. The stone stairs and platforms were smooth, meticulously set. Hewn stone pillars and foundations accommodated any slanting or uneven ground. The house maintained visual harmony with its natural environment: trees and shrubs lined the inside of the stone fence-wall, gardens here and there, pockets of vibrant colors where flowers thrived, the pond with the mini-pavilion at its edge.

In harmony with nature, like any hanok. Except sleeker, a little more compact, and equipped with every modern convenience. Beautiful, yes...but alien. Inho might have grown up in relative affluence, but he'd always been a city-dweller. This much _space_ was difficult to get used to, the ostentatious display of wealth intimidating.

Inseong was the first person in sight, sitting in the pavilion. The wooden deck was raised above the ground, up near to Inho's waist, and lined with solid, knee-height railing. Two of the structure's four pillars were set into the pond, through the rippling cover of flourishing lily-pads. The stairs to the pavilion, facing the opened sliding door leading out the back of the main house's living room, were an extension of the stone pavement encircling the house.

Gravel crackled and wet grass squished underfoot as Inho stepped off one of the flat stones forming a pathway to the front door. He approached the cover provided by the pavilion's tiled roof, but Inseong didn't immediately notice. Glasses perched on his nose, a cigarette between his lips, back ramrod straight as he sat cross-legged at a small table, he was immersed in some paperwork.

"Good afternoon, hyung-nim."

Inseong looked away from his work. Blinked once. Smiled. "Inho." Glanced at his wristwatch.

"Put on white robes and a black hat," Inho said, stepping under the protruding roof and out of the misty rain, "and you could be a bona-fide Joseon yangban."

Inseong discarded his cigarette in an ashtray that doubled as a paperweight. His tailored business-casual clothes, the way he held himself, the too-goddamn-fancy house—all of it practically denoted equivalent status to that long-defunct social class. He looked ready to go out any moment to handle contracts and capricious officials and unfathomable sums of money. "It's good to see you," he said. "Let's get you out of the rain."

Gathering his books and stray papers, Inseong stood, and together, he and Inho crossed the short length of the pavement and stepped onto the porch. The wood flooring thumped hollowly beneath their feet as Inho toed off his sneakers, Inseong a pair of casual slides that clashed with his attire, and left them sitting neatly in front of the open living-room door.

"What are you doing these days?" Inseong asked casually, entering the living room behind Inho. He didn't bother closing the door, which allowed a faint, rain-scented breeze to circulate and keep the room at a comfortable temperature.

"Working, of course. Personal security."

Inseong set his pile of work on the television rack. "That's a strange career choice."

"It's something."

They headed for the three couches that formed a U around a heavy wooden coffee table. Setting his overnight bag on the floor, Inho dropped into one of the couches. Inseong took the one across the table, directly facing Inho as he continued his interrogation.

"Is it temporary?"

Noncommittal grunt.

"You moved on from your previous job? At that store, belonging to that friend of yours."

"I can always fall back on it."

Steadily holding Inho's eyes, Inseong crossed his arms. "Still so aimless, hmm?"

"Don't worry about me, hyung-nim."

"Why not try applying for another respectable office job?"

Inho shrugged. For reasons that didn't matter, he'd never gotten deeply immersed in the office cultures of either firm he'd worked at. Once he'd joined Taegyu, Inho had fallen into a satisfying rhythm and couldn't have cared less about a 'proper' office job at a 'proper' company. The tasks had kept him busy and moving and on the ground; he'd enjoyed interacting with all the people—suppliers, purchasers, neighboring storeowners, even the occasional hoodlum—he'd met while working there.

"You had something good with that construction firm in Seoul though." Inseong's brow furrowed slightly. "Your civil engineering degree wasn't a complete waste there."

"Yes. Thank the heavens," Inho drawled, "that I was able to make _some_ use of that completely randomly chosen major."

"But you did relatively well in your studies, considering. You could have started working toward a management position, if you'd stayed with that firm."

"I wasn't sure what I wanted when I was in Seoul."

"Mmh. You never were quite good at setting concrete goals for yourself..." Inseong's gaze drifted to the television for a moment before refocusing on Inho. "There's time to set yourself straight. I can make some calls to a few friends, find out whether they have any openings." He quirked an eyebrow. "Our company also has a few management positions that need to be filled." 

Inho smiled wryly. "That's nepotism, hyung-nim. Besides, I'd assume these days an MBA would be a prerequisite."

"You have every right, and that degree is simple enough to earn."

"Perhaps. But you inherited most of the business acumen."

"You also have the blood of a consummate merchant running through your veins. What we do isn't difficult, especially as we're not operating from ragged little buildings and run-down trucks anymore. You've a good head on your shoulders. You have plenty of practical experience."

"Hyung-nim, I'm fine where I am. You just focus on the family business."

"When did you become so afraid?"

"Disinterest, not fear."

Inseong sighed deeply. "You're wasting your life, Inho."

"What a tragedy."

"And getting too old to act so frivolously."

Biting back another flippant response, Inho glanced away.

Inseong could judge all he liked; it was the duty of the eldest son and future head of the family to worry about such things. Inho understood, but he was content. His needs were being met, he lived comfortably and had good friends and a decent network, and he possessed a variety of useful skills, business-oriented and otherwise. As for any familial duties, he would fulfill those when he absolutely had to, but there was nothing wrong with living simply in the meantime. His older siblings possessed so much damn talent and ambition that he could afford his unremarkable lifestyle.

The lull in the discussion barely settled when the housekeeper, Mrs. Kang, made an appearance. Inho smiled at the short, matronly woman as he greeted her. She'd worked for the family for decades, and her response sounded genuinely happy. Inseong promptly told her to notify the rest of the house of Inho's arrival and to make sure the guest bedroom was ready.

Then, to steer away from his disappointing life choices, Inho asked about Inseong's kids. The eldest daughter was still at work. The military academy kept the two middle sons busy. The youngest twins, a boy and girl in middle school, were studying in America under the care of their uncle Inmyung, the middle sibling out of nine who'd switched to a U.S. citizenship years ago. That conversation petered off after several minutes, but the silence didn't have time to get awkward because of the appearance of Inseong's wife, Eunmi. 

When he saw her, Inho jumped to his feet with an enthusiastic, "Hyungsu-nim!" and they exchanged warm greetings from across the room before she left to prepare some snacks.

Inseong looked amused for a second as Inho settled down, before he was back to being serious. "Why didn't you bring your girlfriend?" he asked.

"I don't have one."

Inseong frowned. "Are you still sleeping around? With those...what you call 'friends' of yours?" he asked, voice pitched low. Stilted. Disapproving and uncomfortable.

Inho kept his expression amiable. "Not as much as you're fearing," _though they're certainly not the kinds of people you'd ever tolerate, or expect_. Inho's casual approach to relationships was not an issue that arose easily between the eldest and the youngest brothers, because when it came to some things, the 15-year age gap created a natural distance that almost felt generational. Combine that with Inseong's general austerity, and Inho trod more lightly around him than the other siblings.

"It's about time you settle down. I have colleagues whose daughters have reached a marriageable age."

 _If you can't settle down through a respectable job that keeps you busy, you may as well settle down through marriage_. Inho could decipher that much about his brother's thought process. He'd heard a version of this too many times to count. "Unless you're completely serious, and unless she wants to move down to Busan with me, please don't go through the trouble, hyung-nim."

"Oh, don't worry your pretty head over that," Inhye's voice floated over, and Inho got to his feet again. "Any girl lucky enough to snap you up will do whatever you want. You can't remain a bachelor forever." She opened her arms as she approached.

"Not you too," Inho groaned as he hugged his sister. They sat down next to each other. "Where's _your_ fiance?"

"I'm enjoying the single life just a little bit longer. I can afford a few more years, don't you think?"

Inho chuckled. "Of course." Although the rest of society might not, because at age thirty-one, Inhye was vulnerable against open derision as a spinster. But she excelled as a department head at a major tech company, and youthful looks and inspiring beauty favored her. "What happened to that hyung I heard about a few months back? What was his name?"

"His name isn't worth remembering. I caught the idiot cheating, so I called off the engagement."

"What kind of crazy guy would cheat on you?"

"Some boys can't help it." She shrugged. "He didn't have the decency—should I say the brains—to be discreet about his affairs."

Inho snorted.  _Affairs...discretion..._  Without much prompting, he thought of a certain distinctly male and aggressive someone with whom he'd been spending quite a bit of time, and then pictured the bold and pretty woman who made a living as a modern 'gisaeng'. _Hah, yeah, about that..._

"We spent about five months getting to know each other, but it's just as well that I didn't grow all that fond of him." Inhye's lips quirked up. "It was handled quietly. You know Father."

Yes, Choi Deokhun had a particularly soft spot for his two youngest children. Father rarely said it in so many words, but only the best match would do for Inhye (and if the guy was stupid enough to cheat—and then get caught—he wasn't fit to breathe the same air as her), and Inho was free to do anything he wished with his independence, as long as he lived well (which he believed he did).

Eunmi brought a platter of sliced fruit and sat next to her husband. Inhye and Inho quietly murmured their thanks and each took a fork.

"You'll never find your, ah, 'true love' if you just keep going along with these matches," Inho commented airily, stabbing into a slice of peach.

With a smirk, Inhye brandished a melon slice. "So says our family's notorious heartbreaker."

Inho snorted. "Shouldn't you be making more of an effort? Go out and meet guys, sample the wares, create opportunities for yourself. Find your special someone."

"This system's worked more often than not for our family," Inhye idly (dutifully) waved away Inho's suggestion, giving Eunmi and Inseong an amused look. "Besides, that means I can focus on work."

Inseong and Eunmi had been introduced through their mothers. All the parents had lightly pushed for an economically beneficial arrangement, so the two had courted. They'd clicked, they'd married, and here they were—in a stable relationship, with a brood of talented children, no visible strife, no signs of infidelity. So of course, arranged marriages worked; there was time and rationality to build something that lasted longer than a fleeting infatuation. Inhye knew that, but as clearheaded and dutiful a daughter as she was, she still believed in a beautiful ideal. And, while Inho didn't share her sentiments regarding romance-novel drivel about blinding passion and all-consuming love, he wanted her to find her own happiness—fuck the economy and politics of a 'good' marriage.

He finished another slice of peach before asking, "Is Mother still at the temple?"

"Morning service concluded severals hours ago," Inhye said. "She's having lunch with her friends."

"She'll return within the hour," Inseong said, "and so will—"

"I'm home~!" a clear, strong voice rang out, followed immediately by the muffled slam of the front door.

Inhye grinned. "So will Okhee," she finished for Inseong.

Inho was already out of the room. He reached the foyer in time to see his oldest and favorite niece crouching slightly to arrange her ankle boots in the shoe rack. She was oblivious to his presence until she straightened up and did a double-take.

"Uncle?!"

"Hey Okhee," Inho greeted, smiling. He was ready with open arms when she bounded over to him.

Okhee laughed in delight as Inho lifted her off her feet and spun her around. "You finally decided to visit!" she crowed and, once she was securely perched on his arm, kissed his cheek. "You're growing out your whiskers?" she giggled. "I am _loving_ the look!"

"It's not supposed to be a good look," Inho protested, frowning playfully. "I thought I had the whole 'useless wastrel' thing going on with this."

"Not the smartest way to go about it. Totally backfired. You _always_ look gorgeous—take it from a girl who knows."

Inho laughed. "And you, Ms. Okhee, are only getting prettier. The guys must be lining up..." He frowned for real at an unpleasant memory as he headed back to the living room, with Okhee sitting securely in his arms. "I'm not going to have to beat up anyone, am I?"

"No! No beating up guys." Okhee lightly slapped his shoulder. "It's too pathetic to watch. I'd rather do it myself—oh! Did I tell you? I'm almost to black belt in hapkido! It's taking too long, and using work as an excuse isn't great but it is what it is. But anyway," she nuzzled her cheek against Inho's hair, "no one's brought trouble with him lately."

"Good." Inho chuckled; Okhee's enthusiasm was infectious. "And I'm proud of you for keeping up with the training."

He'd missed her audacity and vivacity—and her tolerance for his doting, because she was like the younger sibling he'd always wanted. With five years' distance between them, they'd managed to spend a lot of their childhood together, and he treasured the memories of acting as her 'older brother' and guardian. Supervising her during excursions to the beach; taking her to school on his bicycle. Learning to braid hair because she'd worshipped him and he could do no wrong in her eyes so of course he'd learned. Fending off unchivalrous little shits who'd thought Okhee's friendly personality and pretty, mature looks meant she was up for anything. It had always been his duty—and his pleasure—to do good by his eldest brother's daughter.

"Okhee is no child to be carried around like one. Stop spoiling her. You've already been a bad enough influence."

Okhee and Inho both looked at Inseong with carefully cultivated expressions of innocence.

Inseong sighed shortly. "She's never going to get married at this rate," he groused. "Her standards are too particular."

"Well, hyung-nim," Inho said chidingly, still holding Okhee in his arms, "she deserves only the best."

"Yes, Dad! You've always taught me to aim high. I'm being consistent here!"

"My dear daughter," said Inseong, mouth twitching, "your uncle is an idle player who has no wealth or title or achievements to his name. That was tolerable when he was eighteen. Not so now. Aim higher."

Inho winked up at Okhee, who playfully rolled her eyes at him, before defending himself. "I'm not _that_ terrible, hyung-nim! I support myself plenty fine."

Inseong shook his head, muttering, "Children," which made everyone else laugh.

They spent the next half-hour catching up before Inseong left for a meeting and dinner with colleagues. Mother arrived soon after, and she nearly cried tears of joy as she embraced Inho. He could barely get in any answers as she bombarded him with questions about _everything_ , but he was able to thoroughly reassure her about his well-being. Eunmi disappeared into the kitchen after mentioning preparations for tomorrow.

The rainfall intensified as the afternoon wore on. At some point, Father dropped by for a short while, and he and Inho exchanged quiet smiles and greetings. A reserved and dignified gentleman, Father had never been very demonstrative, and his relationship with his youngest child was characteristically marked by an emotional distance which Inho'd never minded. Respect for one's parents was paramount, regardless of how affectionate they were with their children; Inho respected his father and mother, he was grateful to them, they knew how to communicate when it mattered, and that was that.

With a promise to talk more with Inho later, Father left the house for dinner with friends. Soon after, Inhye went to gussy up for her own evening function. Mother and Okhee were engrossed in their favorite soap opera, so Inho went to join Eunmi in the spacious, gleaming kitchen, which was probably the most high-tech room in the house. Currently filled with the heavenly scents of a variety of foodstuffs, mostly desserts and freshly cooked side-dishes. No doubt the fridge brimmed with more ingredients in preparation for the family lunch/potluck.

Eunmi appeared ready to work for the rest of the evening and tomorrow morning. For as long as Inho had known her, she'd always done the cooking for the household. The eldest daughter-in-law's duty, yeah...but she also loved it and was amazing at it, always on the lookout for new recipes and developing her own. Sitting out of the way, Inho copied down some of those recipes for his own use, and then—after winning the same old lighthearted argument they always had about him not belonging in the kitchen—helped with dinner, which was simple enough with all the food that had already been prepared.

Dinner with the ladies was a peaceful affair interspersed with easy chatter. After ushering Okhee away so she could catch up on the work she'd brought home, Inho volunteered to do the dishes alongside Eunmi. It was a lovely evening, and Inho felt an odd sense of purpose. Father returned shortly after Mother turned in early, as was usual for her. Since he'd agreed to accompany her to dawn service at the temple, Inho decided to settle into the guest bedroom after puttering around the kitchen until Eunmi shooed him away. 

The guest bedroom was a cozy little space in the second floor with its own attached bathroom. A bookcase held many of Inho's old, beloved books that he'd left behind ages ago. While he flipped through a well-thumbed wuxia novel, Okhee barged in, hugging her pillow. Like old times, when they'd lived in their smaller family home in Busan, she made herself comfortable near Inho amid the layers of blankets piled over most of the floor space. Sharing a room was the norm, and with the rainfall having turned into a full-blown thunderstorm, Inho welcomed a chance to do so again.

Early dawn was cool and damp, the air fresh from the night of heavy rain. Leaving the rest of the family to sleep, Inho walked Mother to the temple. Yi Myung-ok was a devout, lifelong Buddhist, and not just because religion was a strategic method of networking and socializing. What wealth and time she didn't spend on friends, fashion, and vegetarian cuisine, she spent on her faith and charity. Inho wasn't a religious man, but he was aware of the general motions, and he happily knelt beside Mother to drift away in meditation. He never failed to find a measure of peace in the rhythmic clacking of the moktak and the steady sutra chanting of the monks and devoted laity.

By the time he and Mother returned from the temple, the rest of Inho's older siblings and their families had arrived. Parents' Day was not a major holiday, but along with the New Year and Harvest festivals, it was one of the holidays for which most of his family tried the hardest to get together. Inho's five older brothers included the president (Inseong) and VP, both set to inherit their father's legacy, a lead prosecutor in the anti-corruption department of the Supreme Prosecutors' Office, and an assistant inspector in the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency; the doctor of the family was in America. Inho's second oldest sister was on track to becoming a school principal, and Inhye was a department head of the nation's largest tech company.

Standing under one roof with all of them could make anyone feel inadequate, but they were a tight-knit family, and Inho wasn't so much of a fuck-up that his siblings disliked him. Besides, someone in the line-up had to balance out all the high-strung, high-powered intensity of the lot. He'd missed them all—hadn't even realized just how much—and he'd _really_ missed his nephews and nieces.

He smiled invitingly at the bright faces of the kids peeking up at him. The ones who weren't middle- or high-schoolers didn't remember who he was, but they warmed up to him quickly, and he finally got to meet his prosecutor-brother's newborn. As the morning bled into afternoon, he played with the giggling, squealing infant, kept the other children entertained, and conversed with his siblings and in-laws when he could. He flitted between the kitchen, the living room, the porch and pavilions, the yards, always with at least one child in tow. There was so much catching up to do in this lively house; Inho hadn't laughed so much or felt so content in ages.

At some point, Inhye sat down next to Inho on the porch. "I'm always surprised by how good my baby brother is with children," she murmured, smiling as she watched Inho play patty-cake with one of their nieces.

Inho grinned, finishing up the game with his niece, and turned to his sister. With a quick, "Not a word to Mother," he hefted the giggling girl up in the air. "Don't encourage her; I'm in no hurry to marry yet," he mouthed to Inhye as he backtracked away with his armful of child.

As tiring as the energetic tykes were—and they were the highlight of the day—the effects of family time were invigorating. No major squabbles or tensions, except for the occasional philosophical arguments regarding work between his siblings. No worries about saving face (especially when his family didn't know everything that was going on in his life, and he intended to keep it that way). No need to think about anything but the present. He forgot about his solitary life in Busan, until much too soon it was time for his siblings to return to their respective homes. He'd grown attached enough to most of his nieces and nephews over the short few hours; even with their limitless enthusiasm, their farewells were tinged with a slight despondency that made his heart clench. They were all good kids, raised well (Inho had to acknowledge his siblings' general competence in even this area), with bright futures.

Okhee insisted on driving Inho to the train station and so, a little later in the evening, with promises to Mother to call more frequently, he took his leave. After dinner with Okhee at her favorite posh little restaurant along one of Gangnam's main thoroughfares—one last indulgence with family in probably a long while—he left Seoul.

Most of the train ride back was spent dozing, the hours of entertainment he'd provided for the kids finally catching up to him, and soon enough, he was back in his neighborhood, trudging toward his apartment. Back home, with its squat, modest buildings and cheap signboards, their paints worn and their neon flickering. Surrounded by concrete structures and cracked asphalt roads, by ancient-looking telephone poles and well-worn storefronts with so much character. He nodded to a few of the neighbors who were still out and about. The moment he stepped onto his rooftop and saw loyal old Soonyi perking up, the surreal contrast between his life and what he'd left behind in Seoul hit him all at once.

"Good evening, pretty lady," he murmured, dropping his bag and kneeling to hug Soonyi around the neck as she snuffled and eagerly pawed at him. "I missed you too." Sitting down on the low outdoor table, he petted her for a bit, enjoyed the cool nighttime air and a cloudless sky that featured a half-moon and the faintest twinkling of stars.

A weekend immersed in that familial environment had a way of putting things into perspective. Too often he forgot how lucky he was to have so many safety nets to fall back on, even though he would never call on his siblings to deal with his trivial personal problems. While he loved his family, he wouldn't trade his current life for anything, even with all his little troubles...

Really, though—what  _troubles_  did he even have? Inho mocked himself as he let Soonyi wander off to her bed. He headed inside while his thoughts wandered to Sangjun. As long as they maintained a level of civility, and Inho didn't have to think about the sordidness of Sangjun's second life, and they kept the details of their physical relationship hidden from public...

He'd had enough time to decide, once and for all, that he didn't need a reason other than 'having fun' and 'thrill-seeking' to want to continue going along with Sangjun's whims. Just a passing entertainment and, at the very best, an interesting friendship. He would go all-in and enjoy until Sangjun got bored because, for all his tough fronts, the guy wasn't completely terrible. He was human, with his flaws and his quirks, and in his own charmingly admirable way, he was making something of himself beyond the shadows of his family ties.

Inho thought about the loyalty of the people close to Sangjun. Old man Minshik's blase but protective attitude, Duhan's acceptance and tight-lipped devotion. The genuine fondness that a beautiful, whip-smart woman like Hyejin held for her client.

He reflected on the commonalities between them, on the odd sense of kinship that arose with their shared teenage history. He imagined the kind of rivalry they could've had, the schoolboy delinquencies they could've engaged in. It was juvenile...but he'd always admired grit and integrity, even in good-for-nothing gangster punks...and damn he was  _still_ thinking like a foolish kid, star-struck by an idealized vision of criminals. He snorted softly. How pathetic was this, mired in an imagined past?

He tugged his blanket up to his chin and turned away from that line of thought, only to settle on the fact that the sex wasn't bad. Even if it should be completely unnatural, and it was still kind of awkward because there was decidedly not a lot of liking and easiness going on between them. But the raw physical compatibility was there, and they both knew what they were doing...or, well, Inho was getting there.

What he faced tomorrow wasn't anything terrible. Nothing serious, no strings attached, but for that one unsavory issue hanging over them, unspoken of after their dubious first night—and which now seemed so trivial. He would bring up that issue soon and take control over that part of his life.

They'd talk it out like rational adults, settle the matter, and then go on fooling around some more as...buddies. Yeah. Inho let that resolution carry him to sleep.

* * *

"You're grinning like a loon," was Sangjun's first comment when Inho entered his office the next day.

Unfazed by Sangjun's gruffness and gloomier-than-usual expression, Inho didn't bother smothering his cheerful grin. "Am I?"

A beat. Then, Sangjun smiled back. "I take it you had a good time." It was a warm smile, not one of his cold shark grins or calculated smirks. Eyes bright and crinkling at the corners, lips parting to show off some pearly whites, sincere in his complete sobriety, the works. A striking reminder: when he flashed one of those, he could probably charm the skirt (or pants) off anyone.

"I did, thanks," Inho replied. "It's amazing how quickly time flies. I can't believe how much my nieces and nephews have grown. My oldest niece—she's a fourth-year teacher right now, she's looking into a master's at SNU. Always been a brainiac, that girl, I'm so proud of her! And there's a new addition to the family, one of my hyungs has a new baby boy. I missed his 100-day celebration, but the kid's healthy and real cute—and he's so big, they said it was a difficult delivery, but hyungsu-nim is all right and I..." he trailed off, finally realizing just how much he'd rambled without thinking about it. "Anyway. Did you get to pay respects to your parents?"

A neutral expression replaced Sangjun's smile. He looked down at the documents on his desk. "I was busy," he replied and flipped one page of a ledger.

"Right." Inho nodded, schooling his own face to blandness. He was on the clock, and there was a social hierarchy (artificial as it was) that he'd agreed to observe. "If you need me for anything, Director, I'll be outside."

"I need you now, Mr. Choi." Sangjun stuffed papers and ledgers into his briefcase. "Hiding from Seunghwan is boring without anyone to help me."

"Director Lee. I'm not going to help you slack off."

"Merely relocating"—Sangjun glanced at his watch and grimaced slightly—"until dinner with him and our lawyer. Keep me company, I'm itching for some fresh air."

"Where would you like to go?"

Sangjun walked toward Inho. "Just drive. Anywhere but the office."

"...Should I be encouraging this, as your subordinate?"

"As my subordinate," Sangjun repeated, tweaking Inho's necktie, "you should do as you're told."

"Right. Of course," remarked Inho as Sangjun's palm scritched over his stubble. Inho placed a hand on Sangjun's shoulder, intending to push him away. "Not in the office, Director,"  _especially not with your secretary right outside the damn door_. They'd been inside the room together for longer than appropriate, too. 

"Indulge me, Inho."

Not 'Mr. Choi', and the unspoken 'please?' in the soft tone, in the way those eyes peered up at him, was unmistakable. Inho hesitated. They'd been doing _so_ well keeping up the half-formal office act—even if, when it was just the two of them, the polite edge of their language seemed always on the verge of tipping over into brusque casualness...

Instead of putting distance between them, Inho leaned in. "You keep playing with fire," he muttered, lips sliding gently over Sangjun's on the last syllable. He couldn't deny the faint thrill at the thought of office shenanigans.

Of course—he wouldn't go too far, here, in broad daylight...but a brief moment of clandestine touching didn't hurt.

And his discipline was falling apart if he yielded to such nonsense. He backed off, rubbing away the moisture on his lips as he impassively checked over Sangjun's face and form to make sure there were no traces of inappropriate behavior. No need to worry though; Sangjun was an expert at controlling his expressions in a workplace context, and after a moment, he turned solemnly away to grab his things. Inho caught Ms. Park's eyes as they passed by her desk. Logically, it was a far shot that she'd suspect anything, but still Inho felt uneasy when she smiled politely and bid them farewell in her crisp, unwavering voice.

Sangjun settled in the backseat and opened his briefcase. Inho drove away from the office, comfortable with the busy silence of a man engrossed in his work. Director Lee took notes while he read through a thick stack of documents, and occasionally marked up pages in his ledger as he made calculations. The sight of such diligence made Inho smile. He drove through the city toward the beaches, saying nothing because the intensity with which the managing director attended his duties made no room for idle chatter.

Only when they stopped for a snack at a quaint shack by the sea did they have anything close to a conversation. Inho talked a bit more about his family after Sangjun expressed interest; Sangjun briefly described his own weekend (mostly making sure Seunghwan didn't get into trouble). Then it was back to work for the director. Inho was, as always, content to merely observe and carry out his own tasks. The rest of the afternoon passed by without event.

In the evening, Inho dropped off the two directors for dinner with their company's lawyer. Then a second round to Seunghwan's favorite nightclub. Car parked, windows open, streetlights aplenty, Inho made himself comfortable in the backseat and got some of his own reading done. A few chapters from a fascinating textbook on financial management Inseong had lent him; and then, after buying a can of juice from the convenience store across the street, he moved on to the action-adventure novel he'd borrowed from the manhwabang.

"Wooow, Jun...I've never seen you get so fucking _hammered_ before!"

Inho heard Seunghwan's exclamation even before the man, with Sangjun and two giggling hostesses in tow, staggered into view. Both men looked on the verge of tipping over. Stashing away his book in the glovebox, Inho got out of the car and strode over to help.

"You're so much more _fun_ now!" Seunghwan guffawed, earning himself a rude gesture from his friend, and dumped Sangjun onto Inho.

Sangjun grinned up at Inho. "Hi," he greeted breathlessly.

Inho didn't reply, keeping his expression neutral. He had just accepted Sangjun's jacket from one of the women when Seunghwan loudly smacked Inho's upper arm, gripping hard for a second.

"Mr. Choi, you be careful with my buddy there, got it?" Seunghwan admonished tipsily. "Now," he flapped his hand dismissively, "shoo."

Annoyance pricked at Inho, but he didn't let it show on his face. "Shall I return for you, Director Jeon?"

"Nahh, I'm good."

Inho dipped his head in acknowledgement. He collected Sangjun and settled him in the backseat.

"Iiinho..." Sangjun slurred. "Choi. In. Ho."

"Yeah?" Inho checked the side mirrors before pulling away from the curb.

"You're really great, y'know that?"

"Yep."

The rest of the drive to Sangjun's home was silent. Inho ended up carrying Sangjun piggyback again. Alcohol wafted into Inho's nose as he closed the door and locked the car. _Hopefully soon, Seunghwan's binge-drinking sessions slow down_ , he grumbled to himself as headed for the elevator.

"Choi Inho." Sangjun declared gravely, once they were inside the elevator. He clutched at Inho's chest. "You..." He pressed a sloppy kiss against Inho's ear. "You're so..." another kiss, "sooo..." and another one, this time on Inho's cheek, "—beautiful."

"Guys like me aren't supposed to be beautiful."

"Depends on who you ask."

Inho snorted.

"You are. And...I like you...an' you're mine."

"Right, right."

"Mine..." Sangjun sighed, nuzzling Inho's ear, arms tightening around Inho's shoulders.

"People are not possessions. They don't belong to each other."

"...Then _I_ am. I'm yours."

Inho smiled wryly. "Not sure I want that."

A long pause. The elevator doors opened and Inho stepped out.

"Wh...what  _do_ you want?"

"Irrelevant. We established that much when we first met."

"When we—...no, it's not. I never..."

Rebalancing the weight on his back, Inho fished out the keys to the apartment.

"I mean I...—fuck—I don't... I like you."

"Good to know," Inho said dryly. He flicked on the entryway light and toed off his shoes.

"I wanna know...what you want from me."

Inho tilted his head. As hilarious as the drunken rambling was, this topic was also getting embarrassing. Fine, he'd bite. "The same thing you as you? Sex. A bit of fun between friends. I'm a simple guy, with simple wants. That's all." He dropped Sangjun onto the bed.

"But...you're..." Sangjun continued to stumble over his words as Inho stripped off shoes and socks. "I can't tell..."

Inho moved on to the belt and trousers.

"I really—..."

At odds with the contemplative pace of Sangjun's utterances, Inho briskly tugged off the trousers. 

"...I really like you, Inho."

"Yeah, you said that already," Inho absently replied, straightening the fabric. "As if I didn't know from all your pawing at me." He neatly folded and set aside the trousers, and took care of the necktie. "I like you too," he conceded, "for being a good fuck." Likely Sangjun wasn't going to remember much of this tomorrow.

Sangjun flung an arm around Inho's neck and tugged hard. "You love havin' my dick up your pretty ass, hmm?" he purred in Inho's ear.

Inho grimaced at the crassness, trying to extract himself so he could continue getting Sangjun ready for bed.

"Better not let some other guy do you."

Finally able to sit up properly and attend to pesky shirt buttons, Inho played along. "I won't."

"Ever." Sangjun's hand tightened on Inho's shoulder.

"Oi, Lee Sangjun. No man in his right mind would approach me for that."

"So your ass belongs to me."

"In that respect, I suppose it kind of does." Inho continued to humor the guy, because why the hell not.

"Mmh." Yanking Inho down  _again_ —this time by the tie—Sangjun asked, "Wanna fuck?"

"No."

"Why?"

Inho laughed softly. "Because you, my friend," he said, taking Sangjun's forearm and pulling him up to a sitting position, "are drunk, is why."

"An' you never take advantage of it," muttered Sangjun. He shrugged off the shirt with Inho's help. "Why don't you ever—"

"Not my style."

Sangjun leaned in, lips brushing Inho's cheek. "But I _want_ you to—"

"No you don't."

"Yes I—"

"No." Inho pulled away and slid his hands up Sangjun's neck, cupped his face. "I'd rather you be able to remember, _very_ clearly, whatever I do with you." The flush darkening Sangjun's cheeks warmed Inho's skin. "Now shut up and sleep."

Sangjun closed his eyes. "Fuck," he sighed, gripping Inho's wrist and nuzzling into his palm. "Y'show your face after three goddamn days and I can't even—you won't let me do anything."

"I won't let you?" Inho teased. With his hand still captured, he absently stroked the soft skin below Sangjun's ear. "Corporate life is making you soft. What happened to the big, bad kkangpae doing as he pleases?"

"Something tells me...tells me I've no chance in hell in this state."

"Very smart of you."

"So...you neither hate nor want me enough to do anything."

'Hate' was too strong a word. 'Want' was an interesting notion that hadn't ever mattered until recently. Inho gave Sangjun's features a once-over. A face that belonged on movie posters and in magazines, eyes brimming with self-assurance, nice lips that looked even prettier when wrapped around—yeah. Okay. He wanted, but in the right circumstances and certainly not when the guy was so drunk he could barely walk.

"...You do."

"Sometimes." Inho smiled. "You talk so much bullshit when you're plastered. Really doesn't go with your image."

"My image... An' what'sat supposed to be?"

 _I honestly don't know anymore._  "Will you give your mouth a rest and sleep already?"

"After you gimme a kiss."

"Really."

"Promise. I jus—"

Inho placed a chaste, closemouthed kiss on Sangjun's lips.

"...That's it?" A slight pout.

"I gave you exactly what you asked for," Inho teased. "Why are you even awake right now?"

"Hm." With unexpected agility, Sangjun grabbed Inho's shoulder and rolled them both onto their sides, hooking a leg behind both of Inho's.

Inho recovered from the surprise only when he felt the hand groping his ass. "Stop that," he chided, and clambered away a little too forcefully. He rolled right off the edge of the bed, and let out a soft 'oof' when he landed on his back.

"...What the..."

So much goddamn silliness. Inho burst out laughing as he sat up. Kneeling on the floor, amused as hell, he set his forearms on the mattress and propped his chin on his wrist. For a few quiet moments, he looked at Sangjun, who stared back with his own loopy grin.

"You should...you should laugh more."

Inho shook his head, toning down the wattage of his grin. He tucked the blankets around Sangjun. "Go to sleep."

"...'kay. Whatever you want, Inho."

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: Okhee and Inho, who's wearing glasses just because...ahaha.. *sweats*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- Gangnam-gu (강남구) = Gangnam ("south 남 of the river 강") District; an affluent district in Seoul  
> \- hanok (한옥) = a term used to describe traditional Korean houses  
> \- yangban (양반) = the upper classes/nobility/aristocracy of the Joseon Dynasty (i.e. Korea, pre-Japanese occupation)  
> \- gisaeng (기생) = courtesans/young female artists (fine arts, poetry, prose, music, etc.) who work to entertain others (sort of like Japanese "geisha"); gisaeng are not necessarily prostitutes/escorts  
> \- hyungsu-nim (형수님) = older brother's wife  
> \- maknae (막내) = the youngest in age among siblings, among a group, etc.  
> \- moktak (목탁) = a wooden percussion instrument, also called a wooden fish or Chinese temple block  
> \- manhwabang (만화방) = "comic book room" from which patrons can borrow comics and other types of books for a small fee


	16. Inho adjusts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inho adjusts to a new schedule and spending more time with Sangjun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, huh? Ahaha...ha.....  
>  **Note to continuing readers:** Chapter 15 was edited (months ago OTL) to add an Inho/Sangjun scene.

Inho skimmed through the schedule in his hand once more before looking up at Hyechul. "Was this Sangjun's idea?"

"Not directly. He had me deal with Executive Director Jeon's rather overparticular stance regarding his security detail, there was some reshuffling going on, and somehow I ended up coordinating all of the nonsense."

"You seem disgruntled, hyung-nim," Inho teased. "Seniority biting you in the ass?"

Hyechul's mouth quirked up. "Yeah and I can pull rank on you, so there you go." He flicked his fingers at the papers that detailed Inho's adjusted schedule and list of additional duties, and the rest of the week's itinerary. "It's simpler this way, for me."

Inho dropped the sheet he held and poured himself a shot of soju. "You're doing your job, as you should, but—dumping all these hours and new tasks on your poor junior without any warning? You're being morally irresponsible, hyung-nim."

Of course, he didn't mean any of it. He tossed back his shot and was about to accept the changes, when he noticed Hyechul's expression. The light smile had turned into a frown.

"I...have been morally irresponsible since the first day I met you."

Inho found the grave tone disconcerting, after the amicable banter they'd shared since Hyechul arrived at Inho's apartment an hour ago. When he'd gotten the call earlier that afternoon asking if they could talk over dinner, Inho had known there was a purpose bigger than merely 'hanging out' with a junior coworker. Work-related discussion was good and all, but this was more serious than anticipated. He opened his mouth, wanting to lift the mood, but Hyechul went on.

"It's been on my mind for a while. I was aware that you weren't—you're still not...entirely willing, and yet I've just been standing by and—"

"Your job isn't to question your employer," Inho finally interrupted, discomfited enough to ignore how rude he was being to his senior. He'd not meant to open up this line of conversation. "You're his bodyguard. You're supposed to take care of obstacles, not be one."

"I should have enough sense to try talking him out of committing a crime."

"Picking up a man to—well. It's hardly a crime." Inho's tone was flippant; his wavering smile felt plastered on. "Not really comparable to everything else he's up to...which you wouldn't really know about of course," he joked. "You're worrying about nothing."

 _Don't press the issue, hyung-nim, it's already been dealt with_ , he wanted to add. Because it would be, soon. He made a mental note to resolve the biggest problem he had with Sangjun. It was an important discussion to have.

Hyechul held Inho's gaze for a few seconds, took a breath, opened his mouth, then closed it. He sighed as he looked away, agreeing to accept that embroidered truth at face value. Instead, he said, "This should have been said a long time ago. I'm sorry, Inho, that I just allowed him to—"

"Hyung-nim," Inho said firmly, interrupting again. "You were not complicit in anything. Trust that I can handle this."

"I never had any doubts of your competence."

"So there's nothing to worry about, right?" Inho smiled encouragingly. "Have faith in me, as you've had for the past month. If anything, I should be the one apologizing that you have to deal with your boss's unconventional impulses."

Silence, tinged with consternation, punctuated the room for a couple seconds before Hyechul responded. "It's...certainly not normal, but there are much worse things he could be spending his energies on." He paused, expression softening a little; Inho would have missed it if he hadn't been watching so closely. "He is my charge," he continued, "and while he's not without his faults, he is damn good at his job—as managing director, mind you. Can't say anything about his part-time gig."

"I'm sure he gets stellar reviews there, too," Inho drawled.

Hyechul shook his head, smiling ruefully. He slowly rolled his shot glass between his fingers, as though contemplating his next words, and then finished his drink. When Inho moved to pour him another, he waved it off with a grunt. "I've worked directly for him for a year and a half, and in that time I've had to escort a grand total of one other short-term partner. You are the most impulsive decision he's made since I've known him."

It was almost flattering. Embarrassing for Sangjun and an inconvenience for all involved, but nonetheless... _so very nice to know I have an impact on others_ , Inho thought sarcastically, holding off on a verbal response by downing another shot of soju. This was a little bigger than embarrassments or ego trips. "You're concerned about how he might present himself. That this...affair," he gestured vaguely at himself, "might slip out. More than it already has," he added dryly, thinking about Minshik and Duhan, Hyejin, the chairman himself.

"You've a level head, Inho. I just want to be clear—though I shouldn't even be asking this of you—but will you continue to ensure that he...conducts himself accordingly?"

Inho snorted. "Hyung-nim, please. I'm not some careless greenhorn." At least, not too much, anymore. "I'm aware of the consequences, and I have my own reputation to think about. I'll keep things in check, and I certainly won't act in a way that reflects too badly on you...or, I suppose ultimately, the chairman."

Wordless understanding—about the nuances of public personas and the necessities of saving face—passed between them as they looked at each other.

"Although I doubt any of this matters much," Inho mused sardonically, "since the chairman isn't a hugely public figure."

If Chairman Jeon was actually looking to secure a seat in the National Assembly, allegations of homosexuality tied to the would-be politician could fuel a scandal, as much as—or perhaps even more than—the fact that the chairman placed someone so closely linked to organized crime in such a senior management position. Inho didn't know the precise anatomy of such a scandal, but he knew how simple it was for public prosecutors (like his older brother Inwoong) to destroy reputations over personal vices; he doubted the exact connections between Sangjun and the chairman could remain hidden. Then he wondered what kinds of prosecutors the venerable businessman worked with, before waving away those pointless thoughts.

"I'll keep him in line, hyung-nim," Inho restated. "It's only right. Not just because it's my job, but as his friend."

"...Friend." '친구'라.

"It's a work in progress," Inho quipped, shrugging.

Hyechul laughed softly, moving towards the closed screen door. Soonyi stood there, alert after her nap and happy there was another person to play with her, tail wagging lazily and front paws padding restlessly over the raised step. He opened the door and sat at the threshold to pet her. "She's so well-trained, a good-tempered old lady."

"She is. The landlady wouldn't have allowed this arrangement otherwise."

"Reminds me of my own childhood jindo," Hyechul commented, before cooing nonsense at Soonyi.

Inho smiled at the sight and left the two to entertain each other while he reread the Thursday-Friday-Saturday itinerary.

"You okay with it?" Hyechul asked after a minute or so.

"Of course." Inho neatly folded the papers in half. It was his job, and frankly, he'd never worked so little for the kind of money he was currently making under this contract, no matter the circumstances that led to this situation. "Is he aware?"

Still petting Soonyi, Hyechul he took a few moments to reply. "It may have slipped my mind. These were last-minute changes, you know," he said, nonchalant. "I think he'll enjoy the surprise."

The subtle deviousness amused Inho. "I will defer to your experience. Anything else I should be aware of for tomorrow morning?"

"He's at dinner with Seunghwan. He may be hungover tomorrow."

"So nothing new."

Hyechul grunted, still smiling, and stood up. "I'll take my leave, now that we're done with business. Thanks for dinner."

"Any time, hyung-nim."

* * *

Inho checked his watch—8:30 on the dot—and rang the doorbell. He stood back to wait.

Just about one month into their acquaintance. At some point, he'd arrived at a grudgingly admiring conclusion: for all that Sangjun's roots were in street thuggery, the man was fiercely dedicated to his role as managing director of the Busan/Gyeongsangnamdo branch of JM Corp. The geondal Lee Sangjun's obligations to his underworld family seemed like mere footnotes; the vast majority of the time, it was the highly disciplined, civilized Director Lee for whom Inho worked.

When he wasn't in his office dealing with reports and phone calls, Sangjun was conferencing with his superiors or with his management team, or he was on the floors checking in with department heads on day-to-day administrative operations. If he wasn't in the building, he was at the ports or construction sites. It wasn't uncommon for him to stay late, or attend social gatherings in the evenings where he dealt with colleagues and clients, paying 'special attention' and providing 'incentives' to public officials or other such associates.

The corruption Inho had so far witnessed during such meetings, hosted in fancy venues with expensive liquor, imported delicacies, and provocative entertainment, was hardly surprising. In this developing country, casual bribery was merely another type of social transaction that was tolerated and overlooked; government, business, and organized crime fed off each other in a complicated symbiosis. In a twisted sort of way, Sangjun was just right for occupying the position he did.

8:32. Hyechul mentioned that Sangjun was rarely late to work—which was any time past 9am—even after a night of corruption and excess. Inho would give it three more minutes.

Leaning against the wall, he stared out at the misty cityscape through the rain-streaked window. A thunderstorm had passed over Busan late last night, though all that was left of it now was a light, steady drizzle. He replayed yesterday's conversation with Hyechul. _'Will you continue to ensure that he conducts himself accordingly?'_ Not that he'd been unaware of the potential risks before, but that request instilled a heightened sense of responsibility.

Not that Sangjun was an idiot, either, and Inho hadn't been wrong to trust the guy's instincts. Being able to compartmentalize their lives came second-nature, and a believably proper employer-employee rapport had formed organically between the two of them. There were no cracks in the public performance that was their professional relationship.

Everything else though...? Ill-defined. But in this little affair, Inho supposed that was where the real entertainment was.

At 8:35, the door opened rather energetically. He straightened up. "Good morning, Director Lee," he greeted impassively. Professionally.

Sangjun blinked. "Inho...?" He stood frozen just over the threshold of the door, looking stylish and sharp like always. Tiredness, however, lingered: in his eyes and the faint shadows underneath them; in the way his swept-back hair was only lightly gelled in a casual but still polished look; in his sluggish response time, as he hadn't immediately started walking toward the elevators.

"Scheduling change," said Inho as he turned and led the way.

"Right..."

"If you slept through breakfast, I have something to eat." Because Sangjun followed a morning routine that included food, which a pesky hangover could easily disrupt. "If you want to stop by somewhere that's fine too," Inho went on as they waited for the elevator, "but you're running a bit late as is. The rain's not helping traffic."

When Inho paused for input, for the sake of polite conversation and because the doors of the elevators had opened, Sangjun said nothing as they both stepped inside, so Inho began summarizing the day's agenda.

"You have a meeting at 10:30 with the heads of the finance and marketing departments, followed by a conference call with the Seoul- and Ulsan-branch managing directors at 11:10, then a meeting with the president at 11:45. Afterwards, a trip down to Busan Port with Director Jeon for lunch with the operations and technical team managers." A busy day and late lunch, which was why Inho thought to make the extra portion of breakfast earlier that morning. "Then, you're sitting in on the finance department meeting at 4:30. Dinner at 7:00 with Director Jeon and representatives from HHI Company..."

A whiff of fresh cologne, as Sangjun leaned in, gaze intent, traces of previous fatigue gone. Inho closed his eyes to better savor the touch of a feather-light kiss—the hint of coffee on soft lips—that quickly turned hot as rough hands slipped under his jacket to rest on his waist. He opened his mouth, tongue readily meeting the one sweeping against his.

 _Bip_... _Bip_... The elevator steadily descended.

It felt good. Warm and friendly, with an edge of brazen aggression that made excitement simmer just under the skin. A perfect complement to the rainy-day mood. But awareness of the time constraints tempered Inho's arousal and, as if thinking along similar lines, Sangjun pulled back.

"I am _this_ close," Sangjun whispered, lips brushing temptingly against Inho's, "to taking us back to my room."

"You're not going to be late just because you couldn't wait for a piece of this," Inho teased, sliding his palm over the rough knuckles of the hand gripping his ass, "—which you will be getting later." And then he took hold of the wrist, firmly removed the wandering hand, and pushed Sangjun away, putting an end to the moment. "You're better than that, Director."

With a short, unintelligible grumble, Sangjun dropped his forehead onto Inho's shoulder. He stayed like that for a few seconds as the elevator slowed to a stop, and then straightened up as the doors started opening.

Inho briskly led the way again. They managed to reach the car in silence and without any unseemly public displays, mostly because Sangjun seemed to be lost in thought—probably in work-mode. His focus wavered just before he got into the backseat, staring obviously at Inho's face. Patiently holding the door open, Inho shook his head minutely and said, "Director, please get in." That tone was completely professional, and after a few long seconds, Sangjun relented. Inho gently closed the door and went around the front to get in the driver's seat. He started the car and switched the radio on to the news, while Sangjun unwrapped and inspected the contents of the modest breakfast.

Gimbap and a thermos full of warm vegetable soup, common food, an incongruity inside this fancy, heavily-tinted and leather-seated car. As he backed out of the parking space, Inho dropped all pretenses of propriety, commenting, "It's not a bad hangover cure." It'd be his snack if Sangjun didn't want it.

"It's...surprisingly good," Sangjun said, sounding a bit confused, after finishing off a piece of gimbap.

"Of course." Hell yeah it was. "I made it." There wasn't much to be confused or surprised about.

" _You_ cook?"

"It's a useful skill for a bachelor. You should learn."

Sangjun responded with an incredulous snort and a noisy slurp of the vegetable soup.

"Shouldn't you guys be good at things like that?" They were veering away from the professional script, but this was normal in the privacy of the car. "Obviously a real marriage is off the table, but if a kkangpae like you can be homosexual, then there has to be more of you types and therefore, statistically speaking, various forms of cohabitation must occur _somewhere_ , but since there's no 'wife' figure, who's going to do the cooking?"

"Fuck if I know any pair like that...but in theory, we would eat out? Takeout. Hire someone to cook. There's no law that requires we eat at home. And what—fucking—when you get married, are you going to make your wife do all the cooking?"

"Only if she wants to and doesn't have a career..." An amusing (and widely regarded as demeaning) prospect popped up in Inho's mind. "I guess since I'm a such a great chef, I'm going to have to be a househusband if I'm not holding down a decent job."

Sangjun scoffed. "Right. Job. Both men would most likely have busy working lives. _Statistically speaking_ , they'd both spend more time with clients and coworkers than with each other."

"All the more reason to learn, no? Seems lacking, to apparently be in love, to live together in the closest thing to marriage you'll get, and where's the commitment? The emotional effort?" Inho quoted the words that Sangjun had used with the loan shark Kiseok. "I for one think cooking, at least dining together is a great way to spend time, nurture the relationship. It's a basic domestic bonding ritual."

"'Bonding ritual'... Where do you even get such a phrase?" muttered Sangjun, mouth partially full. "In any case, if it were true that we must be good at traditionally feminine tasks, then you are a much better gay than I'll ever be."

"...Geh-ee?" Two distinct syllables tumbled awkwardly off Inho's tongue. It sounded more like a weird compound word, 'crab-tooth' or 'dog-two'—something ridiculous.

"It's an American English word that refers to homosexuals. Can be used as an adjective or a noun. Short, descriptive, easy to say."

"Maybe it's easy for you." Inho silently conceded that the Korean language was severely lacking in descriptions for homosexuals, as they were virtually nonexistent in the eyes of the law and society. "Heh. This is a first, getting English lessons from a gangster. Say something else with your fancy English pronunciation."

"Hmm... _English isn't very hard. I'm good with my tongue._ "

It took Inho a couple seconds to translate the words, but the scant effort he'd put into learning English in school paid off. "With your—seriously?" A juvenile double entendre; it made Inho snicker. "I suppose I can't argue with that. Shit, maybe I'm so talented at cooking because I was infected when I was little. Caught the _gay_ virus from some perfect _gay_ specimen off the street, or maybe university—all types there."

"Impossible because it is certifiably not a virus. And cooking isn't gay."

"You're the one being all skeptical about the fact that I can cook."

"I'm saying its fucking ridiculous that you, a _yangban family's youngest son_ , knows how. Knowing your ego, you learned just to impress the ladies."

Not a completely false assumption. "So I learn how to cook to impress the ladies while you learn English to impress the guys."

"...English is a requirement. We started learning in middle school."

"Oh did we?"

"Just how much of a shit student were you?"

"Oi, my interests were wide and varied and school sometimes just happened to get in the way."

"A guy like you," muttered Sangjun, "spoiled brat maknae, playboy, big boss of your school—interested in _cooking_ of all things..."

As if that was harder to believe than a guy like Sangjun being gay. Inho shrugged. "Feels good, knowing I can make people happy with the things I make."

"If you want to, as you say, 'be friends' with the women you fuck, you shouldn't do this shit for them. They'll misunderstand your intentions."

"Can't a guy do something nice for his friends? And I happen to enjoy cooking, Lee Sangjun, and there were never any misunderstandings. Zero."

"Highly doubtful."

Inho thought about it for a second, then conceded with a slow nod. So maybe there was a time or two when he was much younger, but he'd gotten much better about communicating clear intentions. "Well, certainly _you_ won't ever get the wrong idea."

With a soft, inexpressive grunt, Sangjun focused on eating and brought their silly banter to a natural end.

The morning newscaster's crisp voice, the continuous dull patter of rain, Sangjun's wordlessly scarfing down the food. All of it coalesced into a comfortable peace that carried throughout the rainy day. At least, it did for Inho.

'Corporate managing director's security detail' was a ridiculously cushy position, even with the additional hours. Sure, he had regular check-ins with the building's security staff, and he researched locales and kept up with the routes, but there was a lot of wriggle room. That morning, he even had the leisure to utilize—after recently discovering its existence—the highly modern, well-equipped company gym. Intended to boost the health and increase the productivity of the employees or such. At least it helped to alleviate his boredom while preventing him from getting too soft.

Then he did some chauffeuring and acting as decoration. Being the unobtrusive, mouthless employee who was supposed to make things go smoothly for his workaholic boss made Inho feel especially useless on days like this, when he could observe the sheer amount of talking, arguing, manipulating, appeasing, and evaluating required of Managing Director Lee.

Inho was honestly impressed by Sangjun's work ethic. He admired the fact that Sangjun really did have Chairman Jeon's best interests at heart. This meant that, even if they were going to spend more time in proximity now, most of that time would continue to be marked by quiet distance more than anything else, hours of not touching, speaking, or looking. But he knew they would still make progress establishing their odd private rapport.

While very few personal details they knew about each other came from any kind of direct conversation, familiarity had wormed its way in between them, insidious and unavoidable, spurred on by the little interactions that existed in the stretches of time between work and play. Peaceful snatches of conversation such as the one this morning, brief moments in Sangjun's place that led nowhere, nonsensical drunken discussions. They'd fallen into a relatively easy, amicable rhythm. Inho had _allowed_ it, unwittingly, seduced by the man's dedication to getting shit done on the clock. It was like a distorted echo of the relationship he had with his friend and former employer Taegyu.

With idle reflections like these, Inho's incredibly uneventful day passed by quickly.

The last item on the agenda, the directors' meeting with the HHI representatives, lasted over two hours. Inho invited Han Jaewook, Seunghwan's driver, for a quick meal at a pojangmacha a couple blocks down; they were colleagues and would inevitably run into each other more often. One hour for dinner, another to catch up on some reading. Easiest damn job in the world.

When the HHI reps exited the venue, Inho could see the two directors following after were hardly buzzed—a rarity. Director Jeon sent off the reps with a professional, mature smile. Even with that light-dyed mop of hair, and his tendencies to play and drink excessively, he sure could look and act like a business executive. As Director Jeon ambled towards his car where Jaewook waited, Inho, with a properly respectful, silent bow of his head, opened the door for Director Lee.

"Where to?"

"Duhan's club, then home." With that, Sangjun fell silent, closing his eyes.

Inho said nothing during the drive. When he parked the car in the narrow street behind the club, the two men standing guard at the back entrance bowed before one of them disappeared to fetch Duhan. Inho rolled down all the windows as Sangjun lit up a cigarette. The wordlessness was only broken when Duhan greeted them with his usual booming energy.

Managing director to geondal; it was like a physical transformation. There was a shift in the way Sangjun held himself and in his neutral expression, a dangerous quality to his quietness. Being drained and reticent after a full workday helped matters, Inho supposed. And perhaps because he was still in the doghouse for the incident with Hansoo's men, Duhan toned it down as soon as he joined his Hyung-nim in the backseat.

Business-like and serious, Duhan gave a brief report that Inho didn't pay attention to. It wasn't long though, before his usual boisterous demeanor returned. "Come on in for some drinks and a song, Hyung-nim!"

From the rearview mirror, Inho saw Sangjun waving Duhan off.

"Aww, but the boys miss you...—oh. _Ohhhh_. Shiiit, Hyung-nim, your face—you're slipping!" Duhan snickered in delight. "Hehehe, you want some alone time now, your expression says it all~"

"Deputy Baek—"

"I'm happy for you, Hyung-nim!"

Duhan's exuberant interruption of his boss made Inho feel a twinge of alarm.

"Duhan."

"Man, it's been _ages_ since I've seen that kinda expression!"

 _Stop talking, Mr. Baek_ , Inho thought, rather humorously (Duhan's enthusiasm was infectious), as he watched the interaction through the mirror.

"But seriously Hyung-nim, I'm glad you finally got someone who can really get your—"

Quick as lightning, Sangjun seized Duhan's jaw so roughly Inho heard the click of teeth. "Duhan-ah," he repeated, very softly.

Duhan swallowed, loud in the chilly silence of the car. "S-sorry Hyung-nim," came the muffled apology. Leather creaked and he clambered out of the car.

The tension drained as quickly as it had risen. But before Inho could even shift the car gears, the deputy knocked on the half-open window of the driver's seat and ducked down with a fearless, shit-eating grin on his face.

"Mr. Choi, you better take real good care of our Hyung-nim," he leered, before looking at Sangjun. "Have a great night, Hyung-nim!"

Only when Duhan disappeared through the club's back door did Inho relax his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He stewed in awkward silence as he drove away from Duhan's club. Sangjun lit another cigarette.

Once they hit a big street, Inho remarked, "He's like a stupid big puppy." Embarrassing as it was having the affair pointed out like that—though all parties had kept up the grand pretense of not actually naming names and admitting specifics—he couldn't help a rueful smile. "I guess you have your reasons to trust that as deputy."

Sangjun sighed, or maybe he was just exhaling smoke, and replied, "He pulls through where it counts."

"Hmm, I could see that."

"But he's also my brother's man. Even if I had a reason to, I wouldn't freely demote him."

"Your brother—the one with ties to yakuza."

Sangjun took a drag off his cigarette. Just when Inho thought this line of conversation would be shut down, Sangjun quietly said, "Hyukjoon. He controls a large chunk of real estate in central Seo-gu. Duhan and Mr. Yu manage some businesses for him in this part of the district."

"Right at the edge of Nampodong."

"Hn. Hyukjoon wants to expand, but it's...delicate."

"I can imagine." The part of Seo-gu managed by Duhan and Mr. Yu was located in Chungmudong, which bordered the infamously rough-and-tumble commercial neighborhood of Nampodong where Inho had run around as a youth. With family connections and his reputation for being reckless and willing to fight, he'd met a lot of different people there. It was in fact one of his very distant cousins who had once invited him to join a gang, so he had an inkling of just how formidable Nampodong's gangs were. "So Duhan and Mr. Yu do business there, but...you don't."

A pause. "Not officially." In the rearview mirror, Inho could see that Sangjun's gaze was turned to the window.

 _Not enough time or freedom, understandably, for day-to-day operations_ , Inho thought, _And...not enough desire...?_ He didn't voice that suspicion and instead commented, "Yeah, you spend so much time in your corporate office. I suppose calling you a kkangpae-sekki and geondal trash to your face might be unmerited." It was maybe a little too much of a taunt.

"Choi Inho."

"Yeah, Lee Sangjun."

"I'm a geondal. Just like Hyukjoon, just like my father and his father before him."

"Hm. And you seem to take pride in it. You're still half-assing that shit though, which doesn't sound very safe or stable."

"You're so well-versed in the requirements of 'that shit,' are you?"

"Just saying, my friend. Juggling act's going to come crashing down at some point."

"It's not about safety, or stability."

"Then it's about what you are? You're not even a real kkangpae dumok," Inho kept pushing because it was easy and they were _buddies_ now, "but a mere princeling."

Sangjun let out a wry huff of laughter. "Is that right..."

Inho heard a distant quality to that murmured response, and after a glance in the mirror to see that Sangjun was resting his eyes, he stopped fueling the conversation. With a reminder to himself that no good would come of being nosy about underworld politics, he chose one of the music stations to fill the companionable silence for the rest of the ride.

There were plenty of things to preoccupy Sangjun's thoughts—so much so that he didn't even give Inho a second look as he headed straight for his bedroom. This unresponsiveness compelled Inho to stay. It wasn't that the lack of attention bothered him, but...Sangjun had a long, hard day of work...therefore Inho would offer a way to wind-down, just as he would for any of his sex friends.

As the shower started up, Inho lay down on the dark leather couch in the living room, head pillowed on the low arm. Idle thoughts drifted by while he waited, staring at the dimly lit ceiling.

He hoped Landlady Jung remembered to put out some food for Soonyi. The chili peppers were beginning to ripen in the pots, the squash harvest remained plentiful. Sangjun probably wanted sleep more than a bit of sexual release at this point. He thought about friends: the feel of Hyejin's absurdly long, soft hair under his fingers; the rakish tilt of a cigarette held loosely between sweet, wicked lips...lips that belonged to a guy with a great big fucking tattoo that signaled more clearly than anything what he was. Fuck. He was having a _gay_ affair with a _gangster_... He pictured the slope of Taegyu's slouching, skinny back, and Jongdae's dark, weathered hands wiping down glass after glass...a mental note to finalize that get-together with high-school classmates. The cliffhanger on the manhwa he was reading; he'd have to borrow the next volumes in the series...

"You're still here."

Not quite a statement, nor a question. Inho opened his eyes which had drifted shut at some point and took in the sight.

Sangjun stood a few paces outside the threshold of his bedroom, lean and powerful silhouette backlit by the bedroom lights. His damp hair was tousled, spiking out haphazardly, a fluffy white towel hung low on sharply defined hips. With the tattoo out of sight (out of mind), he looked like some kind of model, not a gangster.

"I'm almost offended." Inho sat up and stepped away from the couch in one fluid motion. "Duhan said to 'take real good care of' you." In three steps he was in Sangjun's space and threading his fingers in thick hair, placing his other hand on a bare hip where towel met skin. "What kind of face did you make, that tipped him off?"

"He was hallucinating..." Before Sangjun could finish that whispered excuse, Inho had tugged his hair to turn his face up for a kiss. Few of his friends were as delightfully responsive to kissing; Inho took advantage of it now.

After thoroughly plundering Sangjun's eager mouth, he pulled away to admire his handiwork. It was almost unreal, just how fucking gorgeous an aroused man could be. They stood close enough that he could feel the hardness nudging him. Maybe he really was a bit gay...or something. He stared into dazed, half-lidded eyes framed by long lashes, at the color dusting well-sculpted cheekbones, at a shapely mouth just slightly open and wanting.

Inho rubbed his thumb across those lips. "Was it something like this?" he asked, trying for playful but it was slightly off-mark when he was a little out of breath himself. Sangjun's palms pressed warmly against his chest. "Because then I'd have to reprimand you for being so careless with your expressions. You shouldn't need that from me."

"You're goddamn forward today."

"Tell me you don't like it."

In response, Sangjun grabbed Inho's cheeks and pressed their lips together again.

Bed or couch? Inho made a quick decision. He stepped back, hauling his armful towards the couch for a change of scenery, and settled himself comfortably against the arm of the couch.

Holding Sangjun's bare back against his own clothed body, hand splayed over a pectoral, he nuzzled the damp, citrusy-smelling skin behind a delicate ear. With his free hand, he touched Sangjun through the towel. Fully erect—more than encouraging. Inho could appreciate the obviousness of a man's desire, that it didn't take much or very long to get a guy excited. He moved the towel out of the way.

Precum coated his skin when he thumbed the head, and he earned a soft moan when he pressed against the underside. He spread the fluid around as he stroked up and down the length a few times, spit into his hand for some more lubrication, then got to it.

Moving his hand like he did when he masturbated, starting with quick, firm movements, he remained alert to cues in Sangjun's body. He listened to the responses, the faint hitches in the shallow breathing, the rapid heartbeat beneath his palm and against his lips as he kissed the underside of a sharp-cut jaw. A cool, damp spot was starting to spread on his shoulder, the way Sangjun's head kept rubbing back against it, but he couldn't bring himself to care about anything but drawing out the pleasure from Sangjun. He felt the strength of the grip on his knee as he marked a spot low on the bared neck, closed his eyes against the lightheadedness he felt when he heard the tiny moans, as nails pressed bluntly through the fabric of his slacks each time something went particularly well.

He could probably stay on edge for hours in the sensual heat radiating from the well-muscled back, the pleasure raking across his torso as bare skin writhed against him, but he tempered his own excitement by focusing on technique, on externalities like the creak of leather and the rush of fabric, the quiet wash of the rainstorm outside, the coolness of the air on the back of his neck—until, with a harsh sigh, Sangjun came all over his stomach and Inho's hand.

Inho was satisfied with himself. Not bad for his first gay handjob...although that probably wasn't saying much. Using Sangjun's still slightly damp towel, he wiped off his hand.

"Satisfactory?" he asked, and tried to get some of the spots on Sangjun's skin before they dried too much.

Leaning back on Inho's chest like a contented cat enjoying a belly rub, Sangjun took a leisurely moment to reply. "Could be better."

"Really now?" Inho dropped the corner of the towel to brush his fingers over taut abs. "You didn't sound bored at all." His touch trailed up, lingered on a hard nipple before continuing its journey, "You were making some very agreeable noises...," across the expanse of chest to tease the couple of marks he'd left. "I made you come..."

A shiver ran through Sangjun's body and it was tempting to take things further, but all Inho did was turn his face up for a kiss.

When they separated, he murmured, "You're too tired to appreciate a better performance anyway," against Sangjun's lips.

A snort, as Sangjun pulled his chin out of Inho's grasp. He then twisted around and reached out. A considerate gesture that Inho didn't require.

"I'm good," said Inho, grabbing Sangjun's wrist.

Sangjun raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, and pointedly looked down at Inho's lap. It wasn't easy to _not_ get excited, with a warm body rubbing up against him in all kinds of interesting ways, but he'd calmed down enough.

"Clean up. Go sleep." He let go of Sangjun as he stood up, and left to wash his hands in the kitchen sink.

As he smoothed down the front of his shirt and straightened his pants, Inho's thoughts were on Soonyi (she was probably fine, cozying up under her blankets, but still). When he looked over at the couch, he could see Sangjun's profile facing the floor-length windows. He followed the path of that gaze. Nothing to see but the vertical blinds pushed off to the sides, the sheer curtain covering the glass and view of the rain.

"It's a bit chilly," Inho commented rather superfluously, and Sangjun's head twitched. "Put your PJs on and get to bed. Take advantage of the fact that you won't be hungover tomorrow—"

"Alright, fuck. Stop nagging. I'm not a goddamn child. Good night."

"Night," Inho said to the tattooed image of the bodhisattva on Sangjun's retreating back.

Tattoo. _Gangster_ , he reminded himself, _geondal_.

 _And...friend. 친구._ Inho had always thought a friendship with a kkangpae would be conditional. Conditional upon what, he'd never really given much of a second thought. But here they were. Sex friends. Pretending at a professional relationship. Fuckbuddies. Having gay sex. _Enjoyable_ gay sex. It boggled the mind, that after a month of this shit, things actually hadn't turned out to be so bad.

* * *

The next morning, Inho didn't question it when he was pulled in through the door by the collar and shoved back against the wall.

He tasted coffee again, rich and faintly sugary. He reached up—stopped himself in the last second from messing up the neatly styled hair—to hold onto Sangjun's neck, chasing that flavor with his tongue as an eager hand cupped him through his pants, palm rubbing insistently against his dick. Heat flared low and sharp in his belly.

"You don't have time for this," he protested weakly when his mouth was freed.

"I'm not going to be late," Sangjun said matter-of-factly as he efficiently took care of buttons and belts and zippers.

"Uhh..."

"I refuse to believe you don't know what a quickie is."

"Yeah, but I've only—with women." Inho's hands had already moved of their own volition to help get the relevant pieces of Sangjun's clothing out of the way. "I'm not sure the mechanics—"

"Goal is to get off, so shut up and think about something sexy. Mirim. Lee Bohee," and he listed some more of the hottest contemporary actresses.

Inho couldn't help the soft, breathless laughter. He'd momentarily pictured Hyejin, but Sangjun's mouth and his hands—his hand wrapped around both their cocks—and the way his eyes softened as he smiled back, the whole ridiculous situation was enough to get his heart racing, and maybe it was because he hadn't come last night that his body responded so quickly at such a base level and—and overthinking was the opposite of what he should be doing, so he stopped.

No words, no thoughts, just sensations. His pounding heart, fresh scent of skin pressed against his cheek, his lips. The roughness of Sangjun's knuckles as he finally thought to use his own hand to help. And the frantic heat, slick skin gliding against his own, the tingling in the nerves of his fingers and toes as pressure built up fast and overwhelming until he was right at the edge and he focused on just—...letting go...

They came at nearly the same time, semen spilling over their hands. _But hopefully not too much on our clothes_ , Inho thought ruefully through the pleasant haze clouding his mind.

"Haa fuck...I don't want to move..." Sangjun grumbled against Inho's neck.

 _Neither do I_ , thought Inho, still plastered to the wall catching his breath. He mentally kicked himself. "Come on, we have to get cleaned up." He nudged Sangjun's shoulder. "This was your bad idea, so get some towels," he tried again.

Pushing away with a sigh, Sangjun paused to look over Inho's face. "Bossy little shit," he muttered, a smile playing on his lips (to which Inho had to respond with his best arrogant smirk). But he turned around to comply—after a quick, sexy open-mouthed kiss, tongue swiping against Inho's parted lips.

Nothing about the cleanup was sexy though, or dignified. A bit of semen had dripped on the floor near the kitchen, which was gross and annoyed Inho, and...it was actually pretty funny, watching Sangjun try to get to the kitchen sink without getting any stains on his clothes. Maybe it was just the afterglow forcing Inho to bite back his snickering.

"Stop being juvenile," said Sangjun, tossing Inho a damp rag.

Inho caught it easily. "You're the one still going through puberty," he retorted, wiping his skin. "Seriously—right before work?"

It was 8:39 when Inho checked his watch after taking care of the spot on the floor. Cutting it close, but at least it wasn't raining. He winced at the carelessness with which Sangjun threw the used rags aside near the kitchen sink...—fuck it. Following Sangjun out, he closed the door behind him and rattled off the agenda. In the elevator, he smoothed down his clothing again, frowning at a damp spot on his pants, but they were black so thankfully it wasn't obvious. Sangjun stood next to him, relaxed and well-behaved but looking way too pleased with himself.

"No gimbap today?" Sangjun asked as Inho started the car.

"Hyechul said you normally take care of breakfast during your morning run."

"Yeah..."

"Yesterday was just to be on the safe side, because I thought you'd have a hangover that'd disrupt your routine. Can't have the managing director get pissed off because he was hungry."

"I can have food delivered to me. You're also there to fetch."

"Right. I didn't _have_ to share my snack with you. So be grateful that I'm such a generous person."

"So fucking humble."

"Mm. Also known as being truthful."

Sangjun laughed under his breath, and they eased into their customary silence.

The good mood lasted through the morning, which passed quickly with minimal contact between them as Sangjun made preparations for the arrival of the Seoul-branch managing director, who would be staying for a week in Busan before returning to Seoul. After the directors had lunch together, Sangjun and Seunghwan, along with another car of extra security detail, went to the airport to pick up Managing Director Jeon Seungyeon.

Inho stood with Hyechul and Jaewook in silence, behind the directors. After a few minutes of waiting, Seunghwan waved. "Seungyeon! Over here!"

A woman in an elegant cream-colored pantsuit turned her head, and Inho immediately noticed the similarities between the siblings: same nose, flat eyebrows, tall and slender build. She was striking, handsome in her bold choice of fashion that contrasted with her conservative glasses, her stern face covered in minimal makeup. Her hairstyle, tied back in a bun, would be old-fashioned if not for the fringe framing the side of her face. The corners of her mouth turned upwards when she spotted Seunghwan. Her personal assistant Ms. Ko, a short, middle-aged lady, followed as she approached him.

"Oppa." She returned his exuberant embrace with a more controlled, one-armed hug. "Seeing your face after six months...I almost missed it."

"Wha—hey!"

"Welcome back to Korea." She spoke informally, with a perfect Seoul accent. Her voice was slightly husky, strong and unaffected by any sort of high-pitched daintiness; as stately and cool as the rest of her. Inherited from her father, no doubt. "And Jun." Her smile widened. "It's good to see you."

"Seungyeon." With a small smile of his own—a real one, warm and easy—Sangjun offered his arm to her. "Welcome back to Busan."

"Oh? Smiling so easily...you must be doing quite well, Jun."

"I swear, you're happier to see Jun than your own brother," Seunghwan pouted. " _Both_ of you are happier seeing each other than me."

"Oppa, please grow up." As the group started to leave the terminal, Inho and Hyechul silently took the suitcases, earning quiet smiles and "thank you"s from the ladies. "Jun, I thought being around you would help him. I believe that's why Father placed him here."

"We're both managing directors, Seungyeon. You know I'm too busy to babysit him all the time."

"Ah, that is quite true."

"Well, screw you guys too," Seunghwan announced, dramatically stalking off ahead of the group.

"Oh, don't be like that, Oppa." When she caught up to him, she commented, "You're speaking with a Gyeongsang accent..." In a jarring transition from perfect Seoul to perfect Gyeongsang accent, she said, "I suppose we can't really abandon our roots, can we?"

Managing Director Jeon was...cool. She seemed more responsible and collected than her older brother. Not that she had much of a choice, as a woman holding power in an executive position. Inho liked her.

"These two will be your security detail during your stay." Sangjun gestured to Hyechul and another man standing beside the third car. After making the necessary introductions, Seungyeon dropped off her luggage with her them and then hopped into Sangjun's car. Ms. Ko sedately took the front seat.

"We'll meet you later for dinner, Oppa."

"Yeah, yeah. You two workaholics were made for each other," Seunghwan said, amused. "You aren't getting any younger, baby sister. I know how much you enjoy being a frigid old maid, but I think it'll really work out if you two got hitched."

"I'll put that on the bottom of my extremely long to-do list. See you later. Get in, Jun."

Inho started the car while Sangjun closed the door and briskly reminded him of their destination. Before Inho could pull out of the parking space, Seungyeon turned her full attention on him.

"Hello," she said, shifting her language to sound formal and polite. "Sangjun didn't introduce us. I'm Jeon Seungyeon," she smiled gently, "but you already knew that."

"Yes ma'am. I'm Choi Inho."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Choi."

"Pleased to meet you as well, Director. Would you like to listen to the radio?"

"The news, please. Thank you." As Inho acquiesced, she sat back and let out a soft huff of laughter. "I was not expecting to meet a man with looks to rival yours, Jun."

"I thought you weren't interested."

"I'm not."

"Has your frozen heart thawed out even a little?"

"No. In fact, I'm more certain than ever. I'm just telling it like it is."

"...Sorry. You hear that shit all the time."

"We're nearing thirty. I'm sure you're also being pressured by well-meaning advice."

"Hn. Yeah." Sangjun sounded as weary as Seungyeon. "Let's talk about something else. I heard about the SH E&C acquisition..."

The managing directors settled into quiet, fragmented conversation that had nothing to do with Inho or marriage or love lives. They caught up both personally and professionally, made occasional commentaries on the news. Ms. Ko sifted through some documents, handing relevant ones back to the directors upon request.

The sincere friendliness in Sangjun's tone, in his interactions, was a rare thing to witness. Seeing him at ease with someone who was not only a likeminded colleague but also obviously a good friend lifted Inho's spirits. There was hope for the guy yet.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Extra: A _really old_ gif-ed set of Sangjun's various looks (including army and college days).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  \- Gyeongsangnam-do (경상남도) = South Gyeongsang Province in which the cities of Busan and Ulsan are located  
> \- geondal (건달) = "thug/gangster/mobster" and used interchangeably with 'kkangpae'  
> \- yangban (양반) = the upper classes/nobility/aristocracy (of old, pre-Japanese occupation, Korea)  
> \- -ah/-yah (-아/-야) = a 'friendly'/'informal' suffix, attached to the end of someone's name when talking to/calling that person; only used if that person is the same age or younger than you, and if you're already familiar with them  
> \- kkangpae-sekki (깡패 새끼) = 'kkangpae' means "gangster" (lit.), 'sekki' means "bastard/son of a bitch/rascal"; mashed together into an emphatic insult  
> \- dumok (두목) = gang leader/boss, kingpin  
> \- oppa (오빠) = "elder brother" used by females; also used to address older males who aren't necessarily blood-related


End file.
